


Rain City

by Icanseenow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Background Jo Harvelle/Meg Masters, Dean and Sam are not related, Drug Addict Dean Winchester, M/M, Past Castiel/Meg Masters, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:21:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 24,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28668381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icanseenow/pseuds/Icanseenow
Summary: Seattle in the early 90s. Sam and Castiel have been in a band together forever without much success. Cas is content just doing what he loves but Sam has loftier goals than musical integrity, and when a new charismatic singer joins them, things finally start looking up. The sky’s the limit - as long as Dean keeps his addiction in check, the band doesn’t fall apart and Sam learns to let go of his ex. And maybe along the way Cas finally manages to figure out where he and Sam really stand.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester/Castiel, Sam Winchester/Ruby
Comments: 42
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

Sam looks up at the house. A former warehouse turned into apartments a decade ago. The brown stones are rimmed white and the grand windows framed by black metal. The house was already in dire need of renovation when Castiel moved in, and its condition has only gotten more precarious over the years, but it’s kept its industrial charm. 

Sam rarely stands still to pay attention to any of it. On most days he doesn’t have a reason to hesitate before he walks in. He leans against the metal fence and glances up at the third window from the right in the upper row. Nothing moves behind the glass, but he knows the apartment isn’t empty. Waiting around any longer is not going to change anything. 

———

  
Sam has always been the overgrown counterpart to Castiel's more modest size. It’s not the only place where they diverge. But they’re so used to each other and their differences, so attuned to the other’s company, that sometimes it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. 

Sam lies on his friend's bed the way he often does, with his feet dangling over the mattress' end, his head pillowed on his arms, squeezed against the wall like a sardine in its box. They talk of inconsequential things, they waver between complaining about their days and daydreaming of their future, while Sam rolls a joint. 

"You just wait and see," he says, shaking his head, as if he doesn’t quite believe the words himself. "My next paycheck, I’m buying it."

"I'm not getting on stage with you and a Flying V." Castiel climbs onto his bed. He sits down cross-legged, his knee bumps into Sam's hip. 

Sam shifts his body onto his side, so his back is flush with the wall. This bed is still too small for two grown men. But then, Castiel knew that when he moved into this place and brought his old bed from his parent's house instead of buying a new one. 

"What are you talking about?" Sam’s outrage is fake. They’ve had this discussion before. They’ve got their roles: Sam talks of buying unnecessary gear and Castiel disapproves. "It's a classic!"

"A classic abomination, yeah. If you wanna look like a complete douchebag on stage." 

"It's a good guitar." 

Sam has to lift his head a little to get the lighter in the right position. 

"Why don't we start wearing neon headbands and tight leather pants, too. Complete the look, you know?"

Sam taps Castiel’s knee with his empty hand, his knuckles brush over Castiel’s jeans. "At least that kind of look would probably give us some attention."

The touch was meant to be mollifying, but Castiel's face turns sour. They've had this discussion before, too. "I don't want people to notice us for our outfits. I want them to notice us for our music." 

"Honestly, at this point I’d be happy with anyone noticing us at all." 

They both look at the smoke rings coming out of Sam's mouth. He always smokes until the very end, until his fingers are almost burnt. He says it’s for economical reasons, but really it’s out of some misplaced sense of principle. It just feels so wasteful not to. 

When the glow reaches Sam's fingers, Castiel bows over the edge of his bed and retrieves a saucer. A moment later, he puts it back onto the floor, the dead cigarette butt smeared into the ceramic. 

Sam waits until he’s sure the silence between them is a comfortable one, before he starts to say what’s been burning under his nails. "So, about the singing situation…" Despite Sam’s best efforts to sound casual, he can feel the atmosphere shifting immediately. He soldiers on. "You remember my suggestion to bring someone else in?" 

Castiel sits stiff now. "I remember you talking about it and me telling you there's no way. We're perfectly fine as we are. Why would we need another person to mess it all up?"

"Just hear me out, Cas, okay?" Sam stretches out his hand but decides against a touch at the last minute. "What would be the harm in trying? You always talk about taking our music further, and how it's good to push the envelope and try out new things. Maybe you'd really like it, if it's the right person." 

"I wouldn't."

"You don't know that. You know my vocals are our weak point."

Castiel looks almost offended. 

"Your voice is great."

Sam huffs. "That’s clearly a minority opinion. And even if you like my voice, you can’t deny it’s pretty one-note. It's okay for the stuff we do right now, but it's so limiting. With a better vocalist we could try out a lot more and I could focus more on my playing and you could do your thing." 

"No," Castiel says. "I don't want it."

Sam furrows his brow. "Just no?"

"Last time I checked we weren't a solo act. I get a say too. We're a democracy, right?"

"Of course we are." Sam props himself up on his elbow. "Of course we're not getting a new member without your say. You can veto anyone."

"Great. So I'm vetoing anyone."

Sam looks at the hardness of his friend’s face and wills it to soften. "What is it you’re so afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid. I just like how things are."

"Okay, I get that, but..." He hesitates. "Sometimes I feel like, um, like I’m taking this more seriously than you?"

The look of offense on Castiel’s face only intensifies. 

"Are you joking? How am I not taking us seriously?!?"

"I don't know. I just." Sam pushes some hair out of his face. "This is the most important thing in my life. I mean, it is my life. What else do I have? A shitty job? An ex girlfriend who hates me? A useless degree and no money to go back to school? This is it for me, Cas. This is all I have."

"Sam, you're not 80. You got plenty of time and opportunities." 

"I'm serious, Cas. I know it’s not the same situation for you. You don't have to worry about that kind of stuff. But I need this. This is — It’s my last shot." 

"What do you mean?" Castiel gets this intimidating look, so intense it works on Sam every time. "What do you mean I don’t have to worry about stuff?"

"Well. Money. Your parents. I mean, um, you’re secure." 

"Really? My parents' money? That's the way you want to play this? You know I want us to succeed, too. Don't try to guilt trip me!"

"I'm not! I just... You know it's not about the money for me." Sam looks off to the side. His eyes wander over the posters and photographs on the wall. "I just thought that was always our idea: Temporary jobs until we can finally make it. I don't see that happening if we just keep on doing what we’ve been doing. We need to change."

"I thought you liked us the way we are." Castiel isn’t trying to hide the bitterness in his voice. 

"Of course I do! I love what we do, just. It’s not enough if only you and I love it, you know?"

"Isn’t it?" Castiel asks. 

This time Sam does reach out to let his hand rest on his friend’s knee. 

"I know what you’re thinking, Cas. But it’s not about selling out or changing or adapting to what other people want from us. It’s about evolving. I don't see the harm in trying. If we like him, we give it a go. If we don't, we can scrap the idea. I promise." 

"Him? You already got someone in mind?" 

"Don't get angry, okay?" Sam finds it hard not to break eye contact. "Last Saturday when you were working, I was talking to Brady after their gig – you know, cause he knew we were cautiously looking for a singer, and he knew we were playing The Grit tomorrow, so he asked, and I thought, why not. He's just going to check us out. To see if he thinks we'd be a good fit."

"Oh great, so we're auditioning for someone? Not the other way round?"

"I wouldn't call it auditioning. He just wants to check us out, and we can meet and see how it goes." 

"It sounds like you already know him, if you're so eager for him to join us."

"Yeah." Sam presses his lips together. He can’t think of a way to soften the blow. "Dean's a really good singer and I think his voice would really work for us." 

"Dean," Castiel repeats. "Dean who?" 

It takes a moment until Sam answers. He can hear how small his own voice sounds. "Dean Winchester?" 

Castiel releases a short high-pitched laugh. "You're joking, right?" 

"He's an amazing singer. You know he is."

"Yeah, it's not so much his vocal abilities that worry me. Last time I heard he was still in rehab."

"Come on," Sam nudges him. "Don't be so judgy. That's not you. You've never even met him."

"No fucking way. I don't need to meet him to know that I don't want him in our band!" 

"Just give him a chance," Sam says. "What have we got to lose?" 

Castiel shakes his head, but his face betrays him. Sam has won. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Statistically, Band AUs are apparently the least favourite AUs out there: so here's mine! This has been written over the past two years and is finished. I'm just editing and uploading as I go. Thank you for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s not too bad for a thursday night. The place isn’t packed but it's a decent enough crowd. Most are standing in huddled droves at the sidelines trying to chat over the music, but there's a few people listening with their eyes closed, not exactly dancing but moving their heads back and forth with the rhythm. Castiel spots a few familiar faces. There’s Brady, one of Sam's pothead friends, and a barely passable bassist who fancies himself a musical genius because he chooses to exclusively play in bands where everyone else is crap. He has his arm around some blonde girl. Castiel is irritated with him for putting the whole new band member debacle in motion again, but he’s not too worried. It’s not the first time Sam has considered adding another member and that never went anywhere; Sam is picky. 

On the other side of the room, at the bar stands Ruby, Sam's ex. With mixed feelings Castiel watches her arch her back and flirt with some guy twice her age. He throws a glance at Sam who is more shouting than singing into his microphone and looking straight up into the air rather than at the crowd. The breakup was ugly and Sam is still hung up on her. Castiel was ecstatic when they split, but he’s almost more angry with her now than he was when they were together. He used to try to see the good in her, knowing how important she was to Sam and how defensive he got if anyone so much as suggested that their relationship was unhealthy. Post-break up Castiel is free to hate her. Sam turns his head around and they smile at each other. 

Mid-set, Castiel’s eyes are drawn to the door as Dean Winchester saunters in and walks straight over to the bar. Only when the barkeeper shoves a drink over to him, he turns around to face the stage, like he barely notices a band is playing. He looks bored as he sips on his beer. Or maybe not bored per se, but unfazed. Like he’s untouchable and knows it. 

When they finish their set Dean doesn't clap, he doesn't nod, he is utterly unmoved. It’s a good thing if he doesn’t like the band, but it still irks Castiel. 

The polite cheers of the crowd in his ear, Castiel unplugs his bass. The keyboard and the looper and the drum machine stay put, they’re only loaned. 

When they reach the small room behind the stage, Sam's face is grim.

"What's wrong?" Castiel asks. He thinks back to Ruby. He probably saw her. 

Sam tends to be a relaxed and friendly person, but sometimes something comes bubbling up from underneath the surface, an anger that always takes Castiel by surprise. 

"What's wrong? I fucked up!" 

"What? When?" 

Sam knits his eyebrows. "Don't mess with me, Cas."

"I'm not. I have no idea what you're talking about."

Sam shakes his head, and bends down to close his guitar case.

"I totally messed up New Day Rising." 

"I thought you were trying out something new," Castiel says, glad that it’s only Sam’s musical ego at stake. 

"I was. And it didn't work. And now we look like complete idiots. I look like a complete idiot."

It takes a moment until Castiel realizes why Sam is acting like this. Of course, Sam wanted to impress someone in the audience. 

There's a soft knock against the doorframe. 

"Hey," Dean says in a deep gravelly voice, his eyes apprising the both of them. 

It’s a little bizarre to be addressed by him. Castiel’s seen him live a few times, including at that infamous Gingerbread gig last year where he barely could get out any words, fell off the stage during the third song and had to be taken to hospital. He doesn't look half the mess he did then. With his blonde hair and perfectly symmetrical face, he seems to have just stepped out of a "How to" manual for 70s rock gods. He’s wearing boots and tight jeans, and a leather jacket over his Led Zeppelin T-shirt that should leave anyone sweating like a pig - but he looks cool and collected. Healthy and fresh-faced.

"Hey," Sam says, uncharacteristically high pitched. "Glad you could make it."

Dean nods and saunters over to the ratty couch and plops himself down. Sam sits down too. Castiel stands. 

"You guys are good."

Sam's eyes grow big. He is trying to hide his excitement, but it seeps through. "You think?" 

"Absolutely." Dean licks over his lips. It’s not a nervous tick. Dean Winchester can't be nervous. "I've never seen a two-man band rock like this. Really solid set. The last song was my favorite."

"That one is like 90% Cas," Sam says and Dean turns his eyes. Castiel feels like a deer in the headlights. "Cas is the genius in the band anyway."

"Yeah? Awesome." Dean cracks a smile, as Castiel grows more uncomfortable still. "Cas. That's an unusual name. I'm Dean, by the way."

"We know who you are." The moment the words leave his lips, he can hear the hostility in them. 

Sam throws him an irritated look. "Cas is short for Castiel," he tells Dean. "His parents are kind of religious nut jobs; all his siblings got biblical names too." 

Dean laughs. 

"So..." Sam’s fingers drum against his knee. "What do you think?" 

"About joining your band?"

"Yeah. You think that's an option for you? No pressure."

"Yeah, no, definitely. It's just..." He puts on that handsome devil smile, showing dimples. He’s almost too good-looking when he looks so healthy. Like someone on a poster trying to sell you an axe or get you to join the army. 

"What is it?" Sam asks. Castiel is a little embarrassed at his eagerness. 

"The name."

"Our band name?"

"Yeah. I mean... Vincent Van? What is that even supposed to mean?"

"It's not van like the car," Castiel says. "It’s like Vincent Van Gogh, the painter."

"I know who Van Gogh is. Doesn't explain the shitty band name." 

"It's just a joke," Sam says. "I don't even really remember how we decided on it. But we're not married to the name." 

"Awesome. That’s settled then." Dean smiles. "Are you guys free tomorrow night?"

Castiel crosses his arms over his chest, while Sam nods. "Sure. We usually practice at Cas’ place. The walls are pretty thick. Hang on." Sam pats down his jeans until he finds a receipt. He asks Castiel for a pen. 

Castiel walks over to the table at the side of the room and picks up a sharpie. It’s not like not having a pen will make a difference now. 

"I get off at 5 tomorrow." Sam scribbles down Castiel’s address. "I’ll head right over to Cas’, so… Anywhere from 6 would be cool with us."

Dean smirks at the paper in his hand before pocketing it. 

"Awesome." He pats Sam’s shoulder and gets up. "See you."

He nods at Cas, a self-assured smile on his face, and walks out.

Castiel paces for a moment, then sits down next to Sam and says as calmly as he can: "What was that?"

"What do you mean?" 

"You acted like he was already in the band!"

"I didn’t." Sam creases his forehead. "We’re just going to play with him to see how it goes."

"You want to let him change our band name? We’ve been Vincent Van for 5 years!"

"So?" Sam shrugs. "You got to admit, it’s not a great name."

Castiel runs a hand over his face. "If you hate the name so much why did you never bring it up before?"

"I don’t hate it. All I said is that we’re open to better suggestions and we are, aren’t we?"

A face surrounded by a brown mop of hair appears at the door. "Guys. You gotta move. We need the room."

"Sure. Sorry." Castiel gets up and walks over to get his bass. "Let’s load the car." 

The apologetic smile on Sam’s face doesn’t bode well. "Do you mind taking my guitar, too? I promised Brady I’d tell him how it went, and he’ll be pissed if I don’t at least say hello."

"Are you serious?"

"Please, Cas." Sam throws him one of his patented puppy eyes. "It will only take a second, I swear."

"You want me to wait for you outside in the car to give you a ride back?" 

"Um. No. I thought I could crash at your place. If you don’t mind?"

"No, of course not."

"Great!" Sam beams. "You’re the best!"

It’s difficult staying angry with Sam when he’s like this. 

This is how Castiel ends up sitting in his car for half an hour, with nothing but the radio and his own thoughts as company. Why didn’t Sam ask him to stay too? It’s not like he doesn’t know Brady. He could have talked with some of their mutual friends instead of waiting out here like a pathetic lapdog. Castiel doesn’t go back in. He just changes the station until he finds a song he likes. 

Sam’s forgotten all about his good mood when he opens the passenger door. He mumbles something about running into Ruby. One look into his blotchy red face is enough for all the complaints on Castiel’s lips to evaporate. He’d meant to discuss the Dean situation more, but it will have to wait until tomorrow. 

Castiel goes through his tapes, picks up Sam’s current favorite. 

Sam is still somber, but with each song on Mudhoney’s "Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge" he grows a little more relaxed, until finally he starts talking again. Castiel has heard it all before, but he lets Sam explain in detail why the album is "unparalleled". As much as Castiel disagrees - the record really doesn’t do much for him - he thinks: This is it. He could die happy this way. In the car next to his best friend, post-gig, listening to him drone on about music.

He turns his gaze from the road to smile at Sam, who startles and pauses his logorrhea. Then he lifts the corners of his mouth and returns the smile, his dimples showing. 

Yeah, Castiel thinks. No one will ever take this away from him. 


	3. Chapter 3

Sam sits at the table and taps a nervous rhythm against the wood. He looks up at Castiel who's shuffling through photographs. 

"You think maybe he lost the address?" 

"He didn't lose the address." Castiel tries his best to keep the annoyance out of his voice. He looks back down at the photographs. 

He earns most of his money taking pictures at weddings and other boring occasions, but sometimes people pay him for taking pictures he actually wants to take. Nature, cool buildings, gigs. Most of his concert pictures go to Zines though and of course no one pays for zine contributions on principle. Castiel likes the DIY culture more anyway: there’s something distasteful in getting paid for art. Money changes everything and Castiel lives a frugal life. Not having to pay rent helps. His parents bought him this apartment out of misplaced guilt, when they tried to make up for never really being around while he was growing up. His father, a big shot in the timber industry, was gone from home so much that Castiel at times used to have doubts he even existed. It's safe to say Castiel doesn't feel guilty for taking the apartment. Especially when it means he can concentrate on the really important things in life, one of which keeps twitching in his chair across from him. 

"How do you know he didn't? Lose the address, I mean," Sam says. "He might have." He looks at his watch. It's almost ten. He starts chewing on his bottom lip. 

"Even if he lost it, my address is hardly the best kept secret. He can look me up in the phone book. There's only one Castiel Novak in all of Seattle. You know that."

"I don't think he knows your last name."

"He could always ask someone," Castiel exhales in frustration. 

Sam goes back to tapping his fingers against the table. 

Castiel lets go of the black and white photograph in his hands and stares his friend down, until Sam stops. 

"I'm sorry, Cas." His hands slide off the table, into his lap. "I just... I'm kind of a bundle of raw nerves. What if he changed his mind, you know? Maybe he realized we were lame after all."

"Why are you so certain he won't show? You didn't set a specific time. And anyway," Castiel shrugs. "If he really doesn't come, if he really thinks we're lame, then good riddance. You can stop worrying and we can forget about the whole thing."

Sam seems to barely register his word. "I should have written down your phone number, too."

"You need to relax."

"I can't relax." 

"There's plenty of other singers if you're so sure we need someone else. Which I still think is bullshit by the way."

"I know there's other singers, but someone like him? That's a once in a lifetime chance. His last band was signed to a major label!"

Sam seems to be forgetting that Dean was also kicked out of said band. For good reason. 

Castiel walks around the table, takes Sam's shoulders in his hands and presses down. He presses him hard into the chair.

Sam looks up, confused. 

"Re-lax," Castiel orders. "I'm telling you, this is not worth losing your mind over."

"Thanks. You breaking my clavicles is really helping my anxiety." Castiel loosens his grip a little. Sam looks at the table. "I wish I hadn't forgotten my weed at home. That'd definitely help take the edge off."

Castiel lets go. "Can't help you there." They both know how he feels about drugs, illegal and legal alike. "You wanna practice? Maybe that'll get your mind off."

"Sure. Why the hell not," Sam says with all the enthusiasm of a cranky child being asked to throw the ball around. 

When Sam gets his guitar and plugs it into the 1970s Orange amp, Castiel finds himself thinking - not for the first time - how much easier it would be if Sam just moved in with him. Half his stuff is always here anyway. Half his guitars, a bunch of clothes, a toothbrush. Even the fridge is half Sam, evident from the cans of cheap beer taking over. 

Sam looks up from his tuning. "Hey, didn't you say something about a new song you wrote?" 

Castiel stops in his movements. "You want to hear it? Now?" 

"Why not? You think it’s bad?" Sam grins a little. Like Castiel would ever play him a song he's not satisfied with. Even when they write together, it feels strange suggesting things he’s not sure about. He doesn't like how vulnerable it makes him. But it’s worth it, writing with Sam, bouncing ideas off each other, being in the flow together. 

"Okay," Castiel says and goes to pick up his own guitar. The truth is, he does feel a bit self conscious about the song. He's pretty sure it's good, musically, just the lyrics might be a bit too on the nose. 

"Oh, you wrote it on the guitar? I thought keyboard."

"No. Just guitar. It’s—"

The doorbell rings. Sam sprints into the hallway with his guitar strapped to him, and pushes the buzzer like his life depends on it. It doesn't take long until there's a knock on the apartment door. 

"Dean! Hey!" Sam's voice does that same nervous croaky thing it did yesterday. 

Dean Winchester still looks effortlessly and unfairly cool in his boots, leather jacket and his wind-mussed hair. 

Castiel stands in the hallway, his hand around the neck of his Fender, glad that he's got something to hold onto. 

"Hey, Sam." No word on him being late from either of them, nothing. 

Sam just keeps on beaming and closes the door behind Dean.

"Nice place," Dean says, looking around the hallway until he settles on Cas. "You live here alone?" 

"Yeah." 

"Awesome. Pretty fancy."

His place isn't fancy. It's just a regular old apartment, kind of run-down actually. The door to the bedroom threatens to fall out of the hinges, the beams have an unhealthy grey tint to them and some of the water damage is visible even through the vast array of posters and photographs. 

"Fancy?"

"Anything beats the last place I stayed at," Dean says, and Castiel wonders if he's referring to rehab and if it's really meant as self-deprecating as it sounded. 

"Where do you live now?" Sam wants to know. 

"I'm currently crushing at my ex-girlfriend's. It's... not ideal." He laughs and Sam joins in, a little unsure. 

Castiel doesn't get what's so funny about having a shitty living situation. 

"Come on in." Sam grabs Dean's shoulder and pulls him down the hallway. The wooden floor creaks under Dean's heavy steps. Castiel watches them walk past him and into the living room. Dean's gait's got something of a boxer walking into the ring. 

"Cas was just about to play me a new song he wrote."

"Oh cool," Dean sounds vaguely interested. He takes in the instruments lined up against the wall, he’s impressed. "Oh man, definitely fancy! How many rooms you got here?" 

Something about the way he talks makes Castiel uncomfortable. It makes him want to apologize for having a roof over his head. 

"Only this and the bedroom." 

"Did you hear that?" Dean lightly punches Sam's shoulder. "Only two rooms to himself."

"You should see the house he grew up in," Sam offers. "Makes this place look like shit in comparison."

"Must be nice, being rich." Just when Castiel wishes they'd stop talking about him like he's not in the room Dean turns to him and says: "Let's hear it then." 

"What?"

"The song. You wanted to play a new song, right?" Dean shrugs off his leather jacket and throws it over the chair where Sam still sat minutes ago and plumbs down. "Go on, I'm curious." 

Castiel looks at Sam, who smiles encouragingly. 

"It's still a really rough draft." Literally anything in the world would be preferable to this right here. "Maybe we should play something else first."

"Come on." Dean stretches out his legs. He's already made himself at home. "No need to be shy."

"I'm not shy," Castiel huffs, plugs in his guitar into the small amp and sits down on it. "Yeah, so," he glares at Dean. "Enjoy." 

Thankfully once he starts playing he pretty much forgets that Dean is even there. He avoids Sam's eyes as well, focuses on a smear on the grimy streak-ridden window and gets lost in the music. 

Three and a half minutes later, he ends on the Cm chord. There's a moment of silence, and then Dean says: "Well, fuck me. That was great. Touching as hell."

Castiel wants to laugh, but then he looks at Dean's face and realizes that he's not joking. 

"It's okay. The lyrics need a bit of work, but—"

"Jesus! Are you kidding me? It's awesome." Dean shakes his head. "Kinda makes me wanna punch whoever broke your heart, though."

"Oh, this isn't autobiographical. I don't do that. That’d be way too self-absorbed." Castiel looks at Sam, who looks at the floor. 

"Uh-huh," Dean says. "Sure."

"So, um," Castiel says, fumbling with his guitar. "You wanna try playing something together now?"

"Yeah, definitely." Dean hits Sam's arm to get his attention. 

"Huh? Yeah." Sam nods, a pained expression on his face. It's not lost on Castiel that he's said nothing about the song, and apparently isn't going to either. "Yeah, definitely, let's go for it."


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel shifts against his Toyota. The car park behind today's venue is deserted; there’s nothing but a few patches of wet grass and some bad graffiti on the concrete block walls. 

Sam leans his head against the metal, turns his face towards Castiel and smiles. "Don't worry. Dean told me he might be a bit late. He'll be there in time."

"If he told you he’d be late why are we already here?" Castiel asks. "When did he even have a chance to tell you?" 

"Last night when we left your place." 

"What? Like he walked you home or something?" He laughs. Sam puts his hands into the pockets of his jeans. 

"Wait, really?"

"He was curious to see where I lived. Honestly, I think he just didn't want to go home and face his ex. Apparently she had her new boyfriend over, and well—" Sam cocks his head. "I get it, that must suck."

Castiel makes a non-committal sound of agreement and nods. He turns his face towards a particular wet spot of grass a few feet of him. He’s trying not to let jealousy get the better of him. "What did you guys do?" 

"Nothing. We just hung around, smoked some pot, listened to music." 

Castiel turns back to him. "You really think it's a good idea to do drugs with a junkie?"

"It was just weed, Cas. He definitely didn't go to rehab for that."

"Yeah, well, I know that."

"But what? You're going to talk to me about gateway drugs?" Sam punches Cas' shoulder. "Don't worry about me."

"I’m not worried about you."

"So you're worried about Dean?" Sam sounds hopeful. 

"No, I'm worried about you wanting to be in a band with a guy who's sobriety is obviously just temporary. How long do you reckon it's going to take until he relapses?" 

"Please don't be like this," Sam says with a shake of his head, a pleading tone to his voice. 

"Like what?" 

"Dean’s a really nice guy. He's got his demons, sure, but he's got it under control. He's worked really hard on his recovery." 

"So he told you his sob life story, huh?"

Hurt flits over Sam’s face. "All I'm asking is to give him a real chance. Don't treat him like a freak. And don't ruin this for us."

"I'm here, right?" Castiel asks after a beat. "I'm playing this gig. I'm enduring his presence. I'm trying. You just can't expect me to be all gung-ho about this guy, just because you decided to put all your eggs in his basket. Our basket was fine, too, you know. Just you and me." 

Sam huffs. "Of course it was fine." 

"Heya." They both look up at Dean, who's standing a little off the side, his legs apart, his hands tucked inside his jeans jacket. "Am I interrupting something?" 

"No," Sam steps away from the car. "Of course not." He takes a look at his watch. "We should head inside."

"It's kinda funny," Dean says. "I'm almost a bit nervous. It's been a while. I even drank some herbal tea before I got here." He touches his throat, as if to prove something. 

"You'll do great," Sam says. 

"You’re damn right I will." 

* * *

Sam has his arm around Castiel's shoulder, and leans into him with all his weight. "So, what do you say: Best gig ever or what?"

"It was fun." Castiel does his best trying to hold him upright. It's not the first time he's half-carrying a drunk Sam to the car. "Judging by the way you celebrated, you're pretty happy about it, huh?"

"I'm not drunk," Sam says and puts his head on Cas' shoulder. "I just wish you weren't so sober. You're much more fun when you're drunk."

"Gee, thanks."

"You're still fun. But you could be more fun."

Castiel shifts his weight, puts his arm around Sam's waist and hoists him up. Maybe Sam's not that drunk. Maybe he just doesn’t feel like walking on his own. Maybe they both know this and don't care. Castiel pulls Sam closer and walks with him away from the backdoor to the car. The sky is dull, the moon hidden behind a thick layer of clouds. The only light comes through the small windows behind them. Inside the venue people are dancing to bad indie music from the 80s, drinking and aspiring to reach Sam's level of consciousness. 

"Who'd drive you home if I was drunk?" Castiel asks. "I'm your designated driver."

"We could walk to your place."

"Right." Castiel smiles down at Sam, who's nuzzling his neck. "Yeah, why don't I just carry you on my back?"

"Why not?"

Castiel steadies his grip around Sam, who lets himself be pulled closer. "Cause you're a fucking giant." 

"You love that about me." Sam only acts like this when he’s drunk. They never mention it afterwards. Castiel is afraid Sam would stop if he brought it up and these moments mean too much to him. 

"Let's get you to the car." They don't move. 

"Cas, come on." Sam’s fingers dig into his skin. "Admit that this was the best gig we ever played."

Castiel breathes out. Sam lifts his head from Castiel's shoulder. Their faces are inches apart. "I just want to hear you admit it. We were good. We were better than ever before."

Well, yeah, he's definitely not going to say that. 

"It was surprisingly cohesive," Castiel says. "It was different. It was not bad."

Sam has a soft smile on his face. "I’ll take that."

Castiel starts walking again. 

"So he’s in the band? Can we make it official now?"

"Let's talk about this when you're sober." 

The backdoor behind them swings open, and Castiel has to be careful not to let Sam slip away from his, as he turns his head. Dean’s face is flushed, beads of sweat dance over his skin. "Hey," he grins when he notices them. Castiel's grip around Sam tightens. 

"You were so good!" Sam says. "I knew we were great, but with you—"

"Yeah," Dean’s grin broadens. "It was something, huh? So, um." He looks up at the sky and holds out a hand as if to test for rain. "I think it's about to pour down. Can I get a lift from you guys?"

Of course, Sam nods. 


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel is sandwiched between Sam and the cold wall. A photograph sticks out at an ninety degree angle, Castiel sees only its blank back. When he reaches out to straighten it, it comes off and lands on his face. The accompanying pin falls behind the bed with a soft clink. 

It’s a blurry snapshot of Sam sitting at a table with a bottle of beer in front of him. The lens flare across his face makes him look transcendent. Castiel knows he took the picture but he can’t remember the occasion. He can tell the year by Sam’s haircut. 

"Sam." There's no reply, so he softly nudges his friend with his elbow. "Sam?"

"Mhmph."

"Are you awake?"

Sam grunts into the pillow, before he lifts his head. "I am now. What's up?" 

Castiel doesn't answer at once. He shifts his weight, rolls onto his side. 

Sam lets a hand slide down his face and groans. Then he looks at his Casio. "It's only five," he says. "Why did you wake me? Did you get any sleep at all?" 

"Not really." 

Sam also rolls onto his side, his knees pulled up. They bump into Cas' thigh. "Okay, shoot. I'm probably not going to get much more sleep anyway. I got the early shift."

"Oh, shit. Sorry. I forgot."

"Man, don't be sorry. You really don't need to know my working schedule by heart."

"Yeah, I know. But I know you told me last night."

"Tell me what's up," Sam says, a tired smile on his face. "I don't want to be up this early for no good reason." 

Castiel averts his eyes, looks at the hole in Sam's T-shirt instead. A moth has eaten its way through some of the black cloth. Right below Sam's collarbone. Castiel doesn't touch it. The details of the photograph suddenly seem like a really bad reason to wake him 

"When do you get off today?" Castiel asks. 

"At three, why?"

"I was planning on going downtown."

Sam squeezes his eyes shut for a second, before focusing on Castiel again. 

"I haven’t been to Easy Streets Records in a while. And I need a new shirt." 

"You think you need more than three in your closet?" 

Castiel is unsure if it's meant as a criticism or just an observation. 

"So you wanna come along or not?"

"I've been meaning to go browse for records for ages." Sam runs a hand through his bed hair. 

"But?"

"I probably shouldn’t spend any more money."

"I could lend you some."

"I already owe you from last week."

"So? I don't mind."

"But I do. At some point the 'owing money' part becomes just performative, if you know I can never pay you back. And I hate that." 

"I wouldn't mind you never paying me back. I really don't see much difference if I spend my money on me or you." 

Sam does a little huffing noise that could mean a lot of things. 

"Okay," Castiel says. "If it's such a big deal for you, I know how you could pay me back." Weirdly, Castiel finds, there's no need for courage right now. The words come easily. "You could move in with me."

"What? How would I owe you less that way?"

"You'd save money if you didn't have your own place. Then you could pay me back." 

Sam blinks a few times, apparently waiting for the punchline. 

"I'm serious. You're here all the time anyway."

"Um." Sam looks down at the bed sheets. "There's no room for my stuff in here." 

"You don't have a lot of stuff. And half of it is here already."

"Where would my furniture go? My records? My bed?" 

There's a brief moment of silence as they both acknowledge their current position. They lie there, closely tugged in together in the same bed. But this is different, of course, and they both know it. There is crashing - and the accompanied notion that you can sleep wherever and however you want - and there's actually living together and sharing a bed on principle. It's not the same. 

"I'm sure we could figure something out," Castiel says. 

"I mean, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the idea, but it'd be a little weird, right?"

"Would it? Why?"

"I don't know. Maybe. What if someone came to visit?"

"Who?" Castiel asks, when he means to ask 'What do you think they'll think and why would it bother you?' "We can cram a second bed in here if that’s your hang up. "

"No, it’s not just the bed." Sam looks awake now. You can see the wheels spinning in his head. "You're being serious, right? Cause I'd feel pretty stupid right now if you're just messing around."

"Of course I'm serious."

"I mean, you’re right, it would save us a lot of money."

"You don’t have to decide right away. You can think about it."

"Alright. I will." Sam smiles a little. "Thanks." 

He notices the photograph and takes it out of Castiel’s hand to examine it. 

"That fell off," Castiel says, a little embarrassed. Like he spends his nights awake cuddling up to pictures of Sam. 

"Man, I look wasted."

"No, you don’t. You look deep in thought." Castiel pauses. "You remember when this was taken?" 

"Sure I remember that party. I had this huge fight with Ruby afterwards, so, yeah, wouldn’t forget it." 

He hands the photograph back. There was no way of knowing that such an innocuous question would make Sam feel gloomy, but Castiel feels responsible anyway. 

Sam smiles a little sad smile that’s supposed to indicate he’s fine. "I’m gonna try and see if I can get another hour in. I don’t want to doze off at work again." 

Then he closes his eyes and turns away. It doesn’t take long until his breathing becomes deeper. Castiel doesn't want to wake him again, so he doesn't get up, even though he needs to pee pretty badly. 

Castiel lets the photograph slide in the gap between wall and bed. He scoots away from the coldness and towards the warmth. Then he closes his eyes and waits for the alarm to go off. 


	6. Chapter 6

They meet at the street corner where the buses running from Sam's workplace stop. He wonders if he looks as tired as he feels. At least he still had the 50 cents for his bus fare. Post-work he feels dull and emotionally drained. He thinks of himself as an amicable guy but even he can only take so much of customer service. When he took the job, he never thought he’d stay longer than a few months. 

If he had a knack for photography like Cas, he’d exploit it financially too. But there's only the music. And the doodling. But no one's going to pay him for pencil drawings of trees and milk boxes. 

So music it is. And this is his last real shot of making it out of the grind. He’s going to shoot himself if he stays in this job for another year. Castiel doesn't get the urgency of the situation. Ever since Ruby... Nevermind. He won't let his mind go down that road. Not now, when things are starting to look up. 

The second Brady mentioned the name Dean Winchester, Sam knew this was it. It was finally going to happen. He saw himself as from above, saw himself telling people about the gravitas of that moment. Maybe it’s naive. Every band always thinks they're the ones who are going to make it big. But it's not like that. It doesn’t feel negotiable. 

"How was work?" Castiel asks. 

"Awful." They walk shoulder to shoulder down the high street. Castiel is trying to keep up, taking one and a half steps to Sam's, and Sam tries to slow down so they're in sync. "What did you do?"

"I finished some work I meant to get out tomorrow."

Sam thinks of Castiel’s offer. It's not like they never talked about moving in together back in High School and Sam feels at home there. Logically, it should be great living with your best friend, but there’s something that feels off about it. His gut instinct is to say no — but his gut has been wrong before, as evident by any and all of his past relationships. And what kind of danger is there supposed to be? They already see each other daily anyway. 

They pass two movable coffee sellers, some guy shooting up right on the sideway and a bum aggressively shaking his hat under their noses. They arrive at 1st Ave. Sam's not sure why Castiel insists on getting his stuff from Army Navy Surplus. Like he’s playing at being poor. Cas buys a few T-shirts and a pair of jeans, the cheapest he can find. He's less stingy with his money once they enter their favourite record shop. After ten minutes, Castiel's already clutching four records to his chest. 

Sam peers over his shoulder. "What are you getting?" 

Castiel stops flipping through the "New Arrivals" section and looks up at him, a little surprised that Sam took him out of his shopping trance. Castiel hands him the records and goes back to browsing. 

Sam has never heard of the first two records. One seems to be a compilation of polyrhythmic African beats. Sam feels less of a phony when he recognizes the band name on the third. He flips the record around to read the track list. "Oh, 'My Drug Buddy', you put that one on my last mixtape right?"

"Uh-huh," Castiel nods, not looking up. 

"I liked that one." Sam shifts his attention to the last record, when there's a tap on his shoulder. Sam turns around. 

Well, shit. 

"Hey, Sam."

"Hey, Ruby." He manages to make it sound almost casual. Not at all as wobbly as he feels. Not like the records in his hands feel heavy like bricks all of sudden. 

"What are you getting?" Ruby nods at him with a teasing smile. Sam hates that he still thinks it's attractive. Just like everything about her. 

"Oh, I'm not—" he says and vaguely motions behind him, where he expects Castiel to still rummage through the sections. "I'm probably not getting anything." 

She pulls her mouth into a smile and nods with a knowing glance. When she takes the records from Sam, her hand brushes against his. Sensory memory is a bitch. 

"I don't know any of these," she says, disappointed, before handing them back to him. Although it's nice to have something to hold on to, he puts the records aside. He'd hate to drop them. 

"What are you doing here?" he asks.

Ruby cocks her head into the other corner of the record shop. "Just tagged along with some friends. Saw you standing here and figured... We haven't really talked in a while."

"Yeah," he says. "I mean, I've been busy."

"Yeah, me too." 

"And I haven’t really seen you around."

"Yeah… Oh!" She perks up, as if she's just remembering something. Her long dark brown hair bounces against her shoulders. Just a few months ago, Sam would have stretched out his hand and tug it behind her ear. "I caught your gig last week!"

For a moment, Sam has no idea what she means. She’s seen them live more than probably anyone else. "So Dean Winchester? That was a surprise. It was strange seeing you only do backup vocals."

"Uh," Sam says, very eloquently. 

"I mean, I was just surprised. I didn't even know you knew him?"

"I didn’t. Not really. Um. Brady introduced us. We're thinking about it, you know. Keeping him as a singer. What did you think? Did you like it?"

She bites her lip. She doesn't do it consciously and she doesn’t mean anything by it, but it reminds him of that horrid dream from last week, when he woke up with the taste of her mouth on his tongue. 

"I don't know." She shrugs. "He's a great singer, obviously." 

"You didn't like it?" 

"It's not that I didn't like it. It didn't sound like you. Dean is doing this rockstar thing and you guys are..." She doesn't say what she thinks they are. She doesn't have to. He’s just not sure if Ruby is insulting him or Dean. "Besides," she looks past him, in Castiel’s direction. "I always thought it'd be you and him playing the same three bars for all of eternity. What did you use to say? You two against the world?"

"I didn’t say that?" He can feel the heat catching in his cheeks. 

"You might have been high." She laughs and touches his forearm. Sam wishes she didn't. "But you definitely said it. I thought if you guys ever did get someone else, it'd be a drummer. Not a new singer."

Sam licks his lips, unsure what she expects him to say. There's no malice in her voice, she is being friendly and yet her words are gnawing at him like a hungry wolf. 

Some guy with an oversized beanie on his head shouts her name. 

Ruby smiles, apologetically, and touches his forearm again. "I gotta go. We'll see each other around?"

"Yeah. Um. Yeah, see you."

She doesn’t leave. The guy shouts her name again, but she just keeps looking up at him. 

"I've really missed you, Sam," she says. 

There's a lot of things he could say. The right answer clearly isn't "Yeah, same."

Her smile broadens. She gets on her toes and he bends forward, to greet her kiss on his cheek. She smells of cigarettes and bubblegum and her leather jacket warmed by the sun. 

"See you."

She walks over to her friends, who throw him a taxing look. The guy who called out her name puts an arm around her and puts a hand into the backpacker of her jeans. He says something that makes her laugh and god, fuck, how can Sam still crave hearing her laugh? 

Castiel's not behind him anymore. He's at the counter, paying for his stack of records. Sam can't even remember handing them back to him. 

An old-fashioned bell rings above their head as they leave. The smells of car fumes erases Ruby’s scent in his nose. The walk back to the bus station feels like forever. 

"This day sucks," Sam says, when he sees the bus stop nearing. Castiel doesn't reply. Sam half turns to him, studies his face. He walks slower now. "What did you end up getting?"

"A lot." Castiel says. "Stuff."

"You okay?" 

"Sure."

"You’re not okay."

"Why should I not be okay? Just because you're a self destructive idiot?" 

Sam doesn’t reply. 

Castiel stops in his tracks. His nose crinkles up in anger. "How many times do you want me to watch this crap? Isn't always the same? She makes you feel like shit. I get to hear you crying about it. I give you good advice and you don't listen to it. Rinse and repeat." He goes on walking, in quick steps, like he's trying to outrun the conversation. 

Sam doesn't really feel like that's a fair representation of what's been going on. 

"Oh, come on." Castiel huffs. "Don't give me that look. You know I'm right."

"I didn't do anything!" Sam says. "I only talked to her. What would you have me do? Ignore her when she walks up to me?"

"Yes! Exactly! You can just choose not to talk to her if you don’t want to! You don’t have to fall for her fucking switch and bait every single time! You told her you missed her!"

"Well," Sam says. He feels numb. He already felt bad, but Castiel’s managed to make him feel worse. "I do miss her."

Castiel shakes his head. The two plastic bags in his hand swirl around with him. 

"Where are you going?" Sam asks. 

"I walked too far. My car is down that other street." 

Sam looks at the bus stop, then he runs after Castiel. He doesn’t have another 50 cents anyway. 

They don't talk until they reach the car. Sam takes the passenger seat without asking. 

Castiel puts his arms on the wheel and leans forward. His silence is unnerving. 

"I get it," Sam says. He hesitates before putting a hand on Castiel's shoulder. "It must be frustrating. I know I shouldn’t… engage. But it wasn’t like that. We were just talking." 

Castiel stays still. Outside a car honks and a pigeon flaps its wings. 

"You know what's the worst about all of this?" Castiel straightens his back and turns to Sam. "She treated you like shit. She consistently treated you like shit. You know, intellectually you know that she was a bad girlfriend. That she was _bad_ for you," Castiel says. "And yet, you're still making excuses for her!" 

"I'm not—" Sam rubs a hand over his face. "I'm not making excuses for her." 

She hadn’t always treated him like shit. For all the awful times, there were highs higher than he’d ever known before. And he wasn’t such a prize either. But he's not going to delve into this now and prove Castiel's point. 

Castiel puts his forehead against the wheel. Sam watches him take several slow breaths, like he's preparing himself for a very strenuous task. It hurts seeing him like this, knowing he’s the cause. It's absurd: Sam is the one who just had a horrible run-in with his ex and yet he finds himself wanting to comfort his friend. 

Did Ruby really not like their new line-up? He had felt so good about the concert, but maybe she was onto something. He wished he didn’t still have the urge to impress her, the need for her validation. If she was being serious, Sam decides, then she's wrong. Dean is definitely right for them. 

Sam puts his hand between Castiel's shoulder blades, and leaves it there. 

Castiel lifts his head and turns to him. 

"I'm sorry," Sam says. 

Castiel wipes the back of his hand over his nose, clears his throat and starts the car. 


	7. Chapter 7

He always feels out of place at weddings. They pay well and it’s easy work, but as hard as he tries to blend into the background and hide behind the camera, the atmosphere is too penetrating, he too much a part of it. Weddings depress him and he knows it’s on him. Without fail every single time he takes a photograph of the bride and groom, he pictures their divorce. Her smeared makeup while she screams in hysterics. Him throwing a chair through the air in fits. Castiel feels kind of bad about it, and he's not sure why it happens. Maybe the thought that these people are actually going to have it all seems just too far fetched. He doesn't think it's envy. Well, he's pretty sure it's not that, at least. Maybe it’s cynicism. Realism. Whatever you want to call it. 

Sam told him to come by after work. He’s later than Castiel thought he’d be, but Sam's never in bed early anyway. Knowing Sam, he's either lying on his bed strumming his guitar or lost in a book. Maybe he’s sitting in front of the TV with a bowl of cornflakes in his lap and a notebook next to him, in case he hears a good line to steal. 

Sam's cheerful face appears at the door almost the second Castiel presses the doorbell. Sam throws himself at him and hugs him with surprising enthusiasm. 

"Hey." Castiel draws back despite himself. "You reek."

"Sorry." Sam grins. "We can open a window."

"It's raining."

"Really? Huh."

Inside the apartment someone laughs. Sam grins at Castiel and shoves him inside. His apartment is small, one room and not much of a kitchen and bathroom to speak of. 

"Shit." Dean laughs and taps his finger against the window. "He's right. It's totally raining."

Castiel feels like he's been slapped in the face. He puts down his camera and his bags on the only table. 

Dean scrambles away from the window and lets himself fall onto Sam's bed. "Heya, Cas."

"Hi."

"You didn’t expect me, huh? Well - surprise!" Dean puts his arms up in the air and showcases a broad grin, baring most of his teeth. 

"Dean came by because he had good news," Sam explains. He pats Castiel's shoulder and then slumps down next to Dean on the bed. 

Sam puts the heels of his hands against his eyes and rubs. The sensitive skin tissue comes out looking even more red. 

"How much did you guys smoke?" Castiel steps towards the window and opens it despite the rain. It's windy. Droplets of water immediately hit his face, a welcome refreshment. 

"Dude, don't flood Sam's apartment," Dean says. The authoritative tone in his voice angers Cas. He breathes in the fresh air deeply, trying to keep a cool head. 

Sam and Dean pick up whatever discussion they were having before he got here. 

Castiel bends his body further out of the window, feeling superfluous. He lets the rain run over the back of his head and into his hair. 

The wedding couple today lucked out. The rain only started after all the pictures had already been taken. The bride wore one of these ridiculous off-shoulder dresses, not quite white. Kind of off-beige. Castiel had to adjust the iso-count because the couple just wouldn't stay still. The first pictures looked like a pair of birds mid-flight. Sort of beautiful really, but not wedding-appropriate.

"Hey man," Dean shouts. "What the hell are you doing there? You wanna get pneumonia or something?"

Castiel takes a step back from the window. His hair is dripping onto the floor. He's cold. 

"What is wrong with you?" Dean laughs. Then he turns to Sam, who starts laughing too. 

"I'm gonna get a towel," Castiel says. 

In the bathroom he takes one of the three old raggedy towels Sam owns, sits down on the toilet and starts drying his hair. 

He is surprised when Sam opens the bathroom door and leans against the frame. By the bathroom design, they almost touch. 

"You okay, Cas?" Sam rubs over his eyes. 

"You need to stop that." Castiel presses his hair with the towel. "It’ll only itch more."

"I know that," Sam says and rubs again. 

Castiel throws the towel at his feet, reaches over and holds Sam's wrists tightly. 

"Jeez." Sam looks perplexed. "Okay, I’ll stop."

"Why is Dean here?" Castiel asks and adds: "What's the great news that couldn't wait until tomorrow at practice?"

Sam grins. He shakes one of Castiel's hands off, to rub over his eyes again. "Grungefest."

"What?" Castiel lets go off Sam's other wrist and takes up the towel from the floor. "What about it?"

"It's next week."

"I know that." 

"One of the bands had to cancel." Sam's grin widens. "Well, and it might be us who could replace them."

"Uh-huh, sure."

"I'm serious!" Sam looks annoyed. He clearly anticipated a different reaction. "We might play there!"

"What do you mean, we might?"

"Some guy Dean knows heard about him playing in a new band. He just wants to hear us before he gives us the okay. But Dean said that's pretty much just a formality. Dean said it's not a good slot and everything, but it'd be good for exposure. Not just to potential fans but, like other people."

"Other people." 

"Important people. Dean says it's not just exposure, we might also luck out."

Dean says, Dean says. 

Castiel gets up and pushes himself past Sam's broad body. 

Dean is lying stomach down on Sam's bed, going through his tape collection that's nestled at the end of it. They're neatly organized in a wooden shelf. Dean takes them out one by one to study them in detail. "What's up with all these mixtapes?" 

Sam walks out of the bathroom and joins them. "What do you mean?"

"Did you make them?"

"A few. Most of these are Cas'."

Dean turns his head around towards them. "Cas makes you mixtapes?"

"Yeah, pretty regularly."

"Any good?"

"Of course."

"Huh." Dean opens one of the cases at random, takes out the tape and puts it in the cassette deck of Sam's small stereo. When the first notes sound, he asks. "What is it? Why is there no tracklist?"

Sam looks over at Cas, expecting him to explain. 

"It's so you can better focus on the music first," Castiel says, begrudgingly. "No prejudice. So you don't get distracted by a fancy name."

"So what is playing right now?" Dean asks. 

"The Charlatans."

"Never heard of them."

Sam smiles. "Cas listens to a lot of British bands. He reads music magazines like they’re the holy word."

"Huh." Dean says. "British music like what, The Smiths?"

Castiel starts feeling silly standing and sits down cross-legged on the floor instead. "I like some New Wave, but right now I'm more into Shoegaze and Madchester."

Sam says: "That's like bands from Manchester in England."

"I know what Madchester is," Dean says. "I just didn't peg Cas for a rave kind of guy."

That elicits a laugh from Sam. "He's not. He's just into a lot of music."

"Raves..." Dean sounds pensive. "Not really my kind of drugs."

"What kinds of drugs are more your thing?" Castiel asks. 

Dean looks perplexed for a moment, before giving him a What-the-hell-why-not look. "I wasn't actually that picky, just never that much into E and acid. Always made me feel kind of weird."

"So what were you in rehab for?"

"Primarily heroin."

"Primarily." 

"I mean, I'm not going to deny I was partial to a lot of other shit too. But I could deal with everything else just fine."

Sam sits down next to Castiel on the floor. He's not saying anything even though it's clear that he wants to. 

"So you're saying smoking weed and drinking isn't detrimental to your sobriety?" 

"Cas, come on," Sam says, embarrassed. 

"No, I get it." Dean nods. "You wanna know if I'm reliable, before you let me in the band."

"You're already in the band," Sam says. 

He's not, Castiel thinks. 

"I'm not," Dean says. "But I want to be. I think we're good. I think you guys are better with me and I think you think so too. And you." He points at Sam. "You like me." Sam doesn't reply, but Castiel knows he’s got a sheepish look on his face without having to check. "But Cas here? He's not sold on me yet. And I get it."

"I think you're a very good singer," Castiel says. He's going for diplomacy but it sounds like a school teacher addressing a class at the end of a horrible year. 

"But you just don't like me as a person." 

"What makes you think that?"

Dean laughs gruffly. "Your rudeness and passive aggression for one thing. But don't get me wrong. I understand it. You're skeptical of me. Hell, I'm skeptical of me! But I said it before: I’m serious about this band. And if we're going to do it - and I think we're going to do it because I want to and so does Sam - you and I should get along."

Castiel rubs his forehead. They’re both staring at him. 

"I agree. But what, we’re just supposed to decide to like each other?"

"I already like you, Cas. You're a weird funny dude and really talented." Dean shrugs. "I'd probably like you more if you didn't look at me like I pissed in your drink all the time - but to be honest, even that is kind of funny." 

The mixtape is still running and Castiel tries to concentrate on the sounds and the familiar words. 

"Are you worried I'm gonna relapse?"

"Yeah." 

"I'm not." 

"How can I believe that?" 

"Because I have no interest in going back to that shit." Dean leans forward on the mattress like he’s going to let them in on a secret. "So here's the deal: If you let me in the band, I'm going to be a full member. Same rights as you two. But I'm also going to give everything to the band. That’s who I am: If I'm in, I'm all in." 

Castiel chews the inside of his mouth. He looks at the dusty floor before him. Sam’s breath is slow and halting. 

"You can trust me," Dean says. 

There’s not really anything Castiel can do but agree. Sam has already decided for him anyway. 

"Yeah?" A grin starts spreading over Dean's face. 

"If you start any of that shit again, you're out. I mean it. No hesitation: Out."

"So that means I'm in now, right?" 

"I guess so." 

Dean gets up and pats his shoulder. Then he leaves to get a beer from the fridge. 

Castiel looks at Sam. There’s a soft smile on his face. "Thanks, Cas." 

"Sure." 

Sam’s smile reminds him of the bride: hopeful against all odds. 


	8. Chapter 8

Next to the bar, Castiel stretches his neck and turns in circles around himself. He spots plenty of people, but not the one he wants to deal with right now. 

Out of the corner of his eyes he sees Brady heading in his direction and he really doesn't want to have that kind of conversation, so he swiftly turns around and bumps into someone else. 

"Hey," Ruby takes a step back and smiles at him. "Great gig."

Castiel looks over her head and through the crowd. She follows his gaze. 

"If you're looking for Sam, he's over there near the toilets." 

She’s right. Sam's leaning against the wall, a soft smile on his face, watching Dean’s animated talking. 

"I wasn't looking for Sam," Castiel says. "I was just looking for a way to get out of this conversation."

She cocks her head in mock-offense and puts a hand to her chest. "Aw, man. You're really hurting my feelings. And here I was thinking we were finally going to get along."

"What gave you that insane idea?" Now Castiel does focus on her face. Her pretty face with these ridiculously pouty lips and a slyness that shines through everything. Maybe the last part is projecting, but Castiel has despised her from the moment they first met. He could see right into her dark black soul, while all Sam saw the shiny exterior. 

"I mean," she tugs a strand of her behind her ear, "now that we're not competing for Sam anymore, there's no reason for this animosity, right? He's all yours."

"Sam is nobody's." Castiel tries to stare her down. "And as far as I'm concerned, you're no less of a monster now than you were last year." 

Ruby looks taken aback for a second. "A monster? Is that actually what you think of me?" Then she laughs a laugh that’s trying to hide the hurt, and punches his chest. "That's hilarious!"

"Yeah, yeah." Castiel puts a hand to her shoulder, wanting to push past her, but she grips his hand and holds him there instead. 

"Hey," she says through gritted teeth. "Don’t touch me."

"Okay, well. Then cut the crap. Tell me what you want." 

She glances over at Sam. "Does he have a new girlfriend?" 

"What?" 

"Sam? Does Sam have someone new? I heard some rumors about him and Madison, but then I thought her? That stuck up preppy bitch?"

Castiel crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Why the fuck do you think I'd tell you anything about Sam's private life?" 

"So it's not true?"

"I'm not telling you shit."

They both glance back at Sam. "Well, I guess it makes sense, since he's got someone else to obsess over now."

Castiel lets his arm go limp besides his body. He shouldn't indulge. "What do you mean?" 

"I mean, look at the two of them. I know you're not going to believe me but I actually do feel sorry for you. Having him do this to you over and over again ? Ouch." 

"I gotta go, Ruby." He doesn't move. 

"You know." She turns her eyes to the ceiling. "I always wondered if he actually didn't get it, or if it just made him uncomfortable and he just tried to ignore how crazy you are about him." 

"That's rich coming from someone like you. You’re one to talk about crazy. What is your endgame here, Ruby? You guys are over, what do still you want from us?"

"I care about him," she says. "He should probably know his best friend got the hots for him, seeing how close you guys are." 

"You care about him?" His laugh sounds foreign even to his own ears. "Like you miss him, too, right? I'm sure you miss manipulating him. If you cared about him, you wouldn't have treated him like shit!"

"Manipulating? Treating him like shit?" She raises an eyebrow. "Look, I don’t know what he told you but it was a lot more complicated than that." 

It’s not what Sam told him. Given a chance, he’d always try to make excuses for her. 

"You know why he's never going to give you the time of day? You're just too nice to him. Sam is —" She looks up, and when she talks again her words are hard to hear over the music and Castiel involuntarily steps closer to catch them. "Sam is lost. He needs someone else to make the decisions for him, even if he’d never admit it. And you? You can't even tell him what you want yourself." She considers him a moment before she turns in Sam's direction, but there's people blocking the view. "You think he'd go for Dean if he made a move? He seems more like the dominating type to me."

Castiel shoves her, hard, and Ruby stumbles back a few steps. She looks earnestly shocked. 

"You’re crazy," Castiel mutters under his breath and walks off, his heart beating uncomfortable in his tight chest. He shouldn't have listened to one second of her blathering. There's no point in arguing with her. He should have just walked off right away. It'd be easier if she was straight out lying, but she's great at spinning the truth in a way that plants the seed of doubt. He’s not sure if she’s talented at reading people or if he’s really that obvious. 

The crowd thins and Sam spots him and waves him over. Sam pulls an arm around him and a wave of sweat hits Castiel. He smells much the same he did a decade ago. It makes Castiel think of the endless afternoons sitting in Sam's kitchen eating peanut butter-banana sandwiches, just talking. About music and everything else. In a way he knows he already felt the same way about Sam back then, just with no way of verbalizing it. 

"What did that girl do to you?" Dean asks. "Relationship drama?" 

"What girl?" Sam asks, and adds: "Cas isn’t dating anyone. He’s only ever had one girlfriend."

"How about boyfriends?" Dean asks, and holds up his hands. "Hey, it's all good with me. I'm in no position to judge." 

Sam draws up an eyebrow, and lets go of Castiel. 

Dean shrugs. "I wasn’t always too picky. Sometimes a body is just a body." 

Sam is trying not to show any emotion, but he's clearly surprised. 

"You only live once." Dean turns to Castiel. "So if she’s not your girlfriend then what's the deal?"

"It was nothing." 

"You shove a lot of girls around?"

"It's Sam's ex. And we just talked."

Dean looks up at Sam in question and for a second Castiel fears that Sam is going to give him a minute breakdown of their relationship. But Sam just pulls his lips into a thin line 

"All riiight." It’s clearly bugging Dean that Sam's doesn’t want to talk about it. "I’ve had girls do a number on me too."

"Yeah, um." Sam clears his throat and points at the bathroom door. He shuffles away with his eyes turned downwards. 

Castiel shoves his hands inside the pockets of his jeans. 

Dean musters him in a way that Castiel finds absolutely unnerving. 

"So are you gay?" 

"What? No." It comes out too fast. It’s not a lie, he tells himself. 

"Oh, really? So bi then? Ever had a boyfriend?" 

Castiel's hand inside his jeans pockets become fists. "No."

"You’ve ever been with a guy at least?"

"Jesus, if you’re trying to proposition me, you could try and be a little more subtle." 

"No offense, but you’re not really my type," Dean says. "But don’t worry, I get it, holding out for someone. I really do." 

Castiel is the least violent person he knows. As a kid, whenever there'd be any kind of brawl, he'd hide or run away or go and get a grownup to deal with it. But for the second time tonight he wants to punch someone. He's not going to do it, he's not going to shove Dean either. He's not going to stoop any lower than he already has with Ruby. He’s got to get out of here.


	9. Chapter 9

He knows he should probably be listening to something else, but once he’d stormed inside, thrown his jacket into the corner, peeled off his shoes and socks, and flunked himself onto the bed, he hadn't had the energy to get up again. The walkman on the floor - reachable if he stretched his fingers as far as they would go - had his favorite tape in, stopped in the middle of the B-Side, the last tunes of a 60s pop song fading out once he presses play. 

Technically, it’s not the best tape Castiel owns, but it’s the one he'd save in a fire. There had been a conspiratorial tone to Sam’s voice as he’d pulled the plastic casket with the black tape shining through out of the depth of his red backpack. "Remember last week when we talked about her favorite cheesy songs?" he asked, a shy tilt to his head. "Yeah, well, maybe don't play that one when other people are around."

Sam's definition of cheesy was odd; no one would have batted an eyelid at any of the songs. If anything at all it’s the lyrics that bordered on cheesy: a lot of self-involved introspective stuff and some sad love songs. 

It's form of self torture, Cas supposes, as he closes his eyes and mouthes the words to songs he all knows by heart by now.

Castiel eyes move over the outlines of the Sonic Youth poster he bought a few years ago. He'd bought two, one for himself and one for Sam. There was a time when Sam was so obsessed with 'Goo' he spent hours drawing the cover, over and over again. The couple in the car, one with the arm around the other, smoking, looking extremely cool. Raymond Pettibon had based them on the Moors Murderers, which Sam had never heard of, so Castiel played him 'Suffer Little Children' - Sam had never been big on the Smiths either, certainly not enough to pay attention to the lyrics. 

Over the moor, take me to the moor. Dig a shallow grave. And I'll lay me down. 

"It’s a bit weird, isn’t it?" Sam asked, as they sat huddled next to the record player waiting for the vinyl to segue into the next song.

"The lyrics?"

"Singing about real life tragedies like that. Not just alluding to it. But with the actual names and all."

"I thought you believed in freedom of expression." 

Sam threw him an indignant look. "Of course I do. I’m not saying they’re not allowed to sing about it. But you gotta admit it sounds quite, um, glamorizing?" 

Castiel felt a little attacked. "It doesn’t really make me want to go out and kill and rape and bury a bunch of children. And anyway, aren’t you the one who keeps reading these weird crime books?" 

"That’s not the same." 

"Isn’t it?" 

Sam didn’t look too happy as he threw another glance at the poster. "Just kind of weird having them on the wall now, knowing who they’re supposed to be." 

"I hope I didn’t ruin the art work for you."

"Of course not," Sam pulled up his legs to his chest. "Next thing you’ll tell me the Black Flag logo is based on some world war 2 crap." 

"No. I think that’s just… Anarchism." 

"Lucky me."

Sam hasn’t drawn the Goo cover again, as far as Castiel knows. 

Someone yanks the headphones off his ears. Sam’s face is right above his. 

Castiel doesn't dare to speak. If Sam is pissed at him for bailing, there's a good chance they are about to fight. 

"So you haven't been kidnapped and murdered," Sam says. 

"No," Castiel agrees. "Not yet." 

Sam rolls the chords of the headphones between his fingers. Eddie Vedder's voice is still coming through to them. If Castiel focuses he can still make out the words of self-pity. "That's good." 

"Yeah."

Sam puts headphones down on the sheets and presses the stop button on the walkman lying on Castiel's stomach. "You wanna tell me what happened?"

"You need to be a bit more specific than that."

"I was gone for five minutes and then Dean tells me you just took off. He says you literally ran away from him." Sam musters him again, eyebrows tightly knit. He is annoyed, but also worried. 

Castiel props himself up on his elbows. "What else did he say?"

"Just that you were talking and then you ran off. And that he was sorry in case he said something that offended you."

Castiel snorts. 

"So that's not what happened? You didn't dramatically run off and made me cut my night short, so I could make sure you're alright?"

"Oh sorry," Cas says. "I can assure you I didn't mean to ruin your fucking night. I didn't ask you to come."

Sam breathes out heavily. "Look, Cas, are you going to tell me what's up, or not?"

Castiel doesn't know what he's going to say before the words come tumbling out. "I told you I didn’t want to play in a band with him."

"Yeah and then you agreed you would," Sam says. "Come on, tell me what he said to you that's so bad? I know he likes to grind your gear, but he doesn't mean it in a bad way."

"Oh yeah, that sure doesn't sound biased."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You're obviously not going to believe me when it comes to him."

"Are you serious?" Sam asks. "You’re acting like you’re five. Just because you two had some dumb fight that you won't even tell me about?" 

"No, because my best friend is taking some douchebag's side over mine on principle. You’ve practically just met him."

Sam stares at him for a while, then his eyes go soft and pleading. Castiel has to look away. 

"Cas... I’m not taking Dean’s side. I’m just trying to get what happened."

Castiel turns his head around. "Are you drunk?" 

"What? No."

"Okay." 

Sam wipes a hand over his eyes. "Okay? What does that mean? What difference would it make?" 

"If I told you, I truly can't be in a band with Dean, but I don't want to quit, what would you do?"

Sam gnaws at his lower lip. "I'd try to get you to change your mind, of course."

"And if you can't?"

"It'd depend on your reason, I guess." 

"If I have a good reason?" 

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Say, he relapses. Or if he got violent."

Sam laughs. 

"You know his reputation."

"That's all exaggerated bullshit." 

Castiel shakes his head, and goes back to glaring at the poster. It's easy to claim he’s important to Sam as long as their interests perfectly align. 

Sam doesn't say anything for a while. Then: "We'd kick him out. I'd kick him out if he got violent. Of course I would. I just don't want to talk about these kinds of things because they're so absurd. Dean is great. Not just for the band, he's a great guy and it just sucks to hear you talk about him like he's this menacing threat and not our friend."

"He's not my friend."

"Well, he's mine. And it'd be great if you could stop acting like I'm incapable of having two friends at once." 

Castiel flinches at the accusation of jealousy. 

"I know you're not good with change." 

"No. This isn't about change, this is about him." 

Sam pulls his rest leg onto the bed and towards his chest. "What could he have said that was so bad?" 

Castiel stays silent. 

"Whatever it was, it was probably a joke."

"Why do you keep making excuses for him? You weren't even there!" Maybe Dean did tell him what they talked about him, maybe he got to hear Dean's version of the truth. "He was being invasive and weird. He asked me weird stuff. Sexual stuff."

Sam looks surprised, and then amused. 

"Maybe he was trying to flirt?" 

"For fuck's sake! Sam!" Castiel glares at him. The helplessness of not being believed is too much right now. "I know you always wanted to play this stupid festival and I know he made that possible for you. And I’m gonna play. But..." 

"But what?" 

"I don’t know," Castiel says. He drops the walkman onto the floor. He rolls onto his side and shifts closer to the wall. He doesn’t want to threaten him with leaving the band. Not when it could backfire spectacularly. 

Sam shuffles beside him. "This sweater is way too warm," he says and then he lies down next to him. He throws an arm around Cas' middle, and nudges close, his chin pressing into Cas' back. They lie there in silence like two curved cashews. 

"How did you even get here?" Castiel asks after a while. "I took the car."

"Bus. That's why it took me so long. Left right away when Dean told me you were gone." His voice vibrates softly against Castiel's shirt. "I was worried."

"I'm sorry. I guess I overreacted." 

"It’s okay," Sam says. Pauses. "He can be a bit rude sometimes. I get it."

"No," Castiel says and surprises himself. "He wasn’t really. It was me; I was being weird." 

Sam doesn’t say anything, just digs his chin into Castiel’s back as if to nod. 


	10. Chapter 10

"Look, Cah-siel." She shakes her red curly mane to accentuate her words. "I appreciate that you have to set up the light and everything, but we don't have all day. You’re not trying to stall to get more money out of this, are you?"

"It's Castiel." He adjusts the lense on his camera and takes a peek through the viewfinder. "And you’re not paying me by the hour but for the whole thing." He looks up at her frowning face. "So me staying here longer than I have to is just me making sure you guys get the best pictures possible. If that's not what you want, I'm sure there's someone else who’s willing to rip you off and get you express pictures in ten minutes."

She puts up her hands. "All right, no need to get defensive." She pulls her leopard top down so it covers her belly button for a split second, before it slides upwards again. "It's just we only booked this place for another hour." 

"I'll get it done in the hour. We already got a few good pictures, but I want you all in front of the other wall, too. The one with the big hole in it."

She looks skeptical. 

"It will look good, I promise. You guys want professional looking pictures, right? So tell your band mates to move their instruments, if you want action shots."

She puts her hand on her hip. "Meg said you could be a handful, but I thought she meant that in a fun way."

Castiel lowers the camera in his hand. "Meg said that? A handful, really?"

"I mean, not in these words… She said you were great at what you did but socially, uh, a bit weird and stuff."

Castiel snorts. He guesses there's worse things your ex-girlfriend could be telling the world. Like the fact that she broke up with you because she figured you were in love with your best friend for one thing. But Meg was never the gossiping type. For some reason she actually liked him. A cool, gorgeous smart girl who was into him was a miracle in itself, even if it had never gone anywhere. But it had gone somewhere, and for quite some time too. He’d never lied to her and hadn't meant to string her along. He was sad when she broke up with him, but he had expected it. Well, he didn’t really have a choice. 

"From the way she talked I thought you'd be different," the leopard top keyboardist says, cocking her head to one side. 

"Different how?"

"I don't know. Just from the way she talked about you. It sounded like you were something real special." She obviously thinks Meg is mistaken. 

"Go get your band if you want to get your money's worth," Castiel says. 

She leaves. The sound of her clicking high heels echo against the stone walls. Castiel goes back to looking at the camera in his hands. He hasn’t seen Meg in months. He kinda wishes she could have been there to see them play the festival. He hopes she would have been happy for him in some way. As much as Castiel shits on Grungefest, the commerciality of it all: it was a blast. Seeing bands he’s admired for ages backstage. A crowd so big he’d never thought possible for them. And if he’d had a strange tightness in his chest as he heard Dean introduce them as "Rain City" - the only band name they came up with that no one one of them outright hated - it hadn’t felt important anymore once they’d started playing. 

Castiel isn’t ready yet to admit that Dean elevates their music, but he can hear that they’re good. That it’s different with him. More energetic. That the crowds react better. 

Castiel jumps, when two hands grip his shoulders and he almost drops the camera. Then he turns to see Dean flashing his teeth.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Castiel looks around. "How did you even find me?"

"Woah, holy paranoia, batman." Dean laughs a deep and resounding laugh. 

Castiel cranes his neck, but that stupid glam rock band is off doing their own thing. 

"I asked Sam where to find you."

"Where is he?" 

"He's at work." Dean shrugs. "And to answer your question why I’m here, lest you shit your pants: Can't I just want to visit my good friend and bandmate?"

"And who would that be?" 

Dean laughs again. "Cute." 

Castiel glances between him and the camera. "Look. I’m at work right now, so, unless you want to pay me for my company."

"I bet that sentence sounded just fine in your head, didn't it?" Dean brushes back a strand of his hair and looks around too. "Doesn't seem like you're terribly busy at the moment. Hey, if you wanna test if the lightning is good, why don't you take a test picture of me?"

"That's... not the worst idea, actually." Castiel frowns. "All right. Move over there, near the wall and tell me what you really want from me."

"You're so forward."

"Shut up."

It feels a tiny bit better with the camera between them, a shield against everything that is Dean Winchester. 

Dean puts his hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket and leans against the wall. He poses so naturally, that Castiel can't help but ask: "You're used to people taking your picture?" 

"Yeah, well, with a face like this?" he says, but there’s something about his words that sounds uneasy and almost rehearsed. 

Castiel ignores it and starts taking pictures. 

"Okay, so to tell you the truth," Dean musses his hair, his eyes either on the camera or on Castiel behind the lens. "I'm here because of the future of our band."

"Ah," is all that Castiel says.

"Look. The gig at Grungefest was great, wasn’t it?" 

"It was okay."

"Are you shitting me? It was epic." 

Sam had certainly thought so too. 

Castiel takes down the camera.

"That was it?" Dean asks. "I got many more poses to go through. I could get rid of my shirt if you want?"

"I don't want to waste film. And the lighting is fine." Castiel pauses. "Look unless 'future of our band' was an euphemism for the end of me in it, you should probably stop dicking around."

Dean looks taken aback. "When have I been anything but cordial?" 

"Don't fuck with me. Honestly, what are you doing here?"

Dean motions a band between them. "This is me bonding with you so you'll like me more?" He says it like he's not sure himself. 

"Yeah, I react really well to people making fun of me."

"I'm not making fun of you!" His face changes as he understands what Castiel is talking about. "Oh, the thing between you and Sam? Still? No, it’s cool. I approve." 

"There's no thing." 

"Of course there's a thing." Dean takes the camera out of Castiel's hands. "Best friends always got a thing."

"Yeah that thing is called being friends." 

Dean ponders this a moment. "You ever kissed?" 

"No." He can't believe he's even talking about this. "Not really."

"Not really?"

"I mean, not unless you count a drunken dare in high school." 

"Yeah, no we're not counting this. Unless: was there tongue?" 

Castiel huffs. "This bonding thing between you and me? I don't think it's working."

Dean looks frustrated. "Okay, so what can I do to make you like me? You know I'm not used to this. Most people just... like me." 

"People are shallow," Castiel says and takes his camera back. 

"Who are you calling shallow? Not like you'd have the hots for Sam if he didn't look like that."

"Like what?" Castiel says, an absurd amount of anger at the mere fact that Dean has apparently thought about Sam's that way at all. 

"Like a giant hot lost puppy." 

"Go fuck yourself," Castiel says without much conviction. 

He turns on his heels, looking for the band. He finds them in the other room, talking and hanging around with their instruments, like they’re about to rehearse. "What are you waiting for?" he asks them. 

The singer, a burly guy with arms that could kill, speaks. "We don't want any photos in front of that ugly wall. That's not the vibe we want for the band."

Castiel tries not to laugh at the grandiosity of it all. 

"You said you already took a few good pictures, didn’t you? Rose will get them later that week, right?"

Castiel feels strangely rebuffed. Not like he cares about their opinions on his photography skills, but still. 

"If that’s what you want, sure."

They stare at him like a bug that just won’t leave. 

"There's still the matter of payment," he says. 

"Oh, right." After a moment of awkward stillness, the drummer comes up from behind his drum set and pulls out his wallet. "Uh, how much was it again?"

At least he gets to get out of here earlier than expected. When Castiel walks back into the other room, Dean has left.

Except of course he hasn't. Castiel shoves the metal door open and spots him right away, leaning against the sheltered brick wall, smoking. "That was quick," Dean says, cigarette still between his lips. 

Castiel walks towards him with uncertain steps. 

Dean takes the cigarette out of his mouth. 

"Essentially, you and me, we want the same thing, right?" he asks. 

"I doubt it." Castiel presses the shouldered camera into his side. 

"You want to be in a band with Sam, I want to be in a band with Sam. And what do you know? You and me, we both happen to be in a band with him."

Castiel's grip around the camera bag tightens. 

"Isn't that the main thing?" Dean asks. "I want to be happy, you want to be happy, you want Sam to be happy."

"I don’t know what you want from me. We already settled this. You’re in the band. I admitted defeat. Happy?"

Dean frowns. "Man, why do you have to look at it this way? It’s not defeat. We both won." Castiel doesn’t say that it doesn’t feel like it. "I just don’t want this to be hanging over our heads like Damocles' sword, all right?" 

Castiel shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. "Big words for a high school drop out."

"I read, asshole."

"Oh wow, what, you got two Bukowski and Céline volumes at home?" 

Dean ducks and shakes his head slowly, somewhere between frustrated and amused. "Do you actually not want to be in the band? I’m not winding you up, I’m asking. Because there’s a solution for this. We can find other people. Maybe even get a bassist and a drummer like a normal band."

It’s a strange sensation, hearing Dean say these words. It’s not a threat; he’s stating a fact that Castiel is already aware of. He’s in no position of power anymore, he’s not the one calling the shots. 

"No need to piss on me to mark your territory. You and Sam are besties now, I get it."

"No, you don't get it, Cas." Dean pushes himself away from the wall effortlessly. He drops the cigarette onto the ground and stomps onto it. "You and me aren’t rivals. And if this was a friendship contest, you'd obviously win. It's honestly kind of weird how insecure you are about him. And a little bit pathetic too."

"What is this? A psychoanalysis?" 

"No. Shut up. I'm trying to help you not make an idiot out yourself. You're not asking Sam to choose between you and me. You're asking him to choose between you and the band. Between you and his one shot at his dream. Do you really want to know your odds in this?" Dean raises an eyebrow. 

Castiel looks away. He feels his ears burning. It’s not like other people haven’t pushed him on the Sam issue, but not like this. 

"It's not about you," Castiel says. "Honestly. You’re okay. I guess."

Dean laughs. 

"What do you want me to do? Pinky promise we’re friends now? I think you’re a good singer. Isn’t that enough?" 

Castiel’s fingers around the camera back are getting tense. He looks up into the air, and sighs. 

"Alright then," Dean says. "So that’s settled."

"I guess." 

Dean walks up to him and puts a hand to his shoulder. "Great, so let’s drive." 

"Drive?"

"I set up a meeting with my old manager in about —" Dean looks at his bare wrist. "10 minutes." 

Castiel watches him walk towards his car. Dean turns around without stopping. "Come on, chop chop. He hates if people let him wait." 


	11. Chapter 11

Sam scratches over his neck, the skin already an alarming shade of red. He couldn't be acting more obviously nervous if he tried. Castiel wants to reach out, but he resists the urge and remains still in his chair. He gazes away from Sam’s face - also blotched with red but not from scratching- to the mahogany desk in front of them. Castiel is a little nervous himself. It makes him feel like a child, too much of this reminds him of waiting in his father's study for a lecture. 

"You need to relax," Dean says, from Sam's other side. "He can seem a bit intimidating at first, but he loves me." 

"Yeah, I know he loves you," Sam says, not reassured in the least. 

"And by extension he'll be fine with you, too."

"Is this some power play?" Castiel asks. "Letting us stew in this airtight room?"

Dean shakes his head and leans forward to catch Castiel’s eyes. "He's just a really busy guy." 

"Yeah well, we could be busy too. And you made me run a red light to get here in time."

Dean sighs, irritated, and leans back. He puts his feet onto the desk. 

"Jesus," Sam mumbles and scratches at his neck again. The sound, like fingernails over a chalkboard, makes Castiel pull up his shoulders. 

"Don't worry. Me and him are pals," Dean says. 

Castiel leans forward and clasps his fingers around Sam's and pulls them down. Sam looks at his hand in Castiel's as if he’s surprised to find it there. Before Castiel can say anything, the door opens with a loud thump. 

Sam pulls his hand away, splays it on his thigh and sits up straight. 

"Hello, boys." Fergus Roderick MacLeods' name is much more impressive than his physique. Castiel isn't sure what he was expecting but from the way Dean talked it wasn't a pot-bellied man with thinning black hair. 

At least his voice, low and vibrating, intimidates. "Dean, Sam," he nods and then he walks around the desk and extends his hand out to Castiel. "You must be the other one."

Castiel throws a quizzical look at Sam and Dean. "Castiel," he says. The hand shake is dry and quick. 

"So what’s your role in the band?" 

"I play all kinds of instruments, live it’s mostly keys and bass though."

"No, kiddo, what’s your role in the band?"

Castiel glances at Sam again. 

"Dean’s the front man, Sam his second in command and you’re the music nerd in the background?"

"No," Dean says. "We're all equal in this."

"Right." A snort. "Come on, Dean, we both know that's not true. Every member has his role, musically and on a personal level." Then he looks back at Castiel. "Don't misunderstand my bluntness for cruelty. I'm sure Dean is right that you’re all important. You’re a founding member after all, aren't you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, me and Sam, we're—"

"You were slouching around for years until you struck gold with Dean, I know." He walks behind his desk and sits down in his big black throne-like chair. "So. I assume he told you why you’re here. I want to give you the opportunity to actually make it: I want to manage you."

"What would that entail?" Sam asks. 

"Well, everything." Crowley holds out his arms. "I'm going to get you a contract - a good one. I'm going to get you better gigs than you can imagine right now. Money, fame, and all that. The sky’s the limit." 

Sam throws a cautious look into Dean's direction. 

Dean takes his feet off the desk. "Tell us your conditions. We're all ears." 

"You haven't changed a bit, have you? Well, I'm glad. There's a reason I want to be on your team again." He leans forward and points at Dean. "Because you, you are good."

"Tell me something I don't know."

Half an hour later, the band is standing outside on the curb, not sure what just happened. 

"Maybe we should have signed something," Sam says, his eyes darting. "Wouldn't it be better if we had signed something?" 

Dean takes Sam's shoulders into his hands. "Dude, you need to relax. He wants us. What do you think is going to happen? He'll think better of it?"

"You trust him?" Castiel asks. "He seemed shady."

"Obviously he’s shady, he’s a manager. But he’s a good business man and he can smell a good deal from a mile away. And that's what we are to him, a good deal. He's got no interest in treating us badly. He wants to make money off us."

"Right. Because no musician has ever been ripped off by their manager before."

"Is this because of what he said about your role? That's just him testing you. If you push back a little, he'll learn and treat you better." 

"That's just what I want from a professional working relationship."

"Come one, Cas," Dean spreads out his arms. "Aren't you the least bit happy about this?"

Castiel snorts. 

"I know you’re a cynic but there’s got to be a part of you that likes the idea of people buying your records, singing the words you wrote, going on tour, getting to leave your job—"

"I like my job." Castiel crosses his arms in front of his chest. "I love my job actually."

"Really? You love running after bitchy bands who don’t appreciate your work?" 

"What bitchy bands?" Sam asks.

"At least I don’t sign any long term contracts with any of them," Castiel says. 

Dean shakes his head. Apparently he’s past trying to argue. "Anyway, you guys ready to go and celebrate?" 

Sam looks back and forth between them, before he nods and kicks a pebble out of his way. 

Dean takes them to a deserted establishment where they all sit down at the bar. Castiel looks around. It’s a place for people already buzzed enough not to care about its seediness. 

When the barkeeper finally bothers to notice them, Dean points at the three of them and orders a round of shots. He downs his in one go, puts an arm around Sam and digs his chin on his shoulder. He touches Sam with a lightness that Castiel envies. Things between him and Sam have been weird lately. It’s like someone’s started heating and stirring the lukewarm pot of their friendship. It’s not just having someone else around them all the time, but someone who can see through him so easily. Someone Sam has taken to so quickly. 

"I'm gonna take a leak," Dean says, entangling himself from Sam. He saunters over the bathroom door, puts his hand on the Love-O-Meter with the 'Out of Order' sign and turns to them once more. "Don't forget your drinks. I paid for them." 

"Technically, he hasn't paid yet," Castiel says, looking down at his untouched glass. 

Sam looks down too, takes up his glass and drinks. He is embarrassed by Castiel, he can tell. 

"Aren't you happy, Cas?" Sam asks, turning the glass between his fingers. "Is it because you don’t like this guy?"

"No. I mean, I definitely didn’t like him but I trust Dean's judgement." 

Surprise flits over Sam's face. "You do?"

"Yeah. I don't have to like the guy for him to be a good manager. We're not looking for a friend, right?"

"Right." Sam frowns, his eyes on the glass in his hand. "Why aren't you happy then?" he asks, quietly. "If it's not him?" He turns the glass around as if he’s looking for something in there. "It’s not the band, is it?" 

Castiel huffs. "Not everything's about the band." 

Sam turns and Castiel immediately regrets his tone. 

"Did something happen?" Sam shifts his position on the bar stool. "Is your family okay?"

Castiel wants to laugh. "Of course. No, nothing happened."

Sam's hand lands on his shoulder and he considers him with soft eyes. For a short second, Castiel wants to talk. He wants to lay it out all out there. And say what? "I've been in love with you for at least a decade, and now you're slipping away and I need you to know that"? It would antagonize Sam. It wouldn't just rock the boat, it would implode it. There is no realistic outcome in which Sam would react the way Castiel wants him to. There's no option that wouldn't break his heart. 

"It's fine," Castiel says. "I’m just a little stressed." He shoves himself off the bar stool.

"Where are you going?" 

"I got another work gig." Castiel points at the door. "It just came back to me." He doesn't avoid Sam's hurt gaze. "Sorry to miss this. But we're going to have a lot of other opportunities to celebrate in the future, right?" 

"Hey, wait a minute, Cas." Sam turns to him, one leg already on the ground, ready to drag him back. Castiel shakes his head and takes a step backwards. 

"Tell Dean thanks for the drink," he says. "I'm sure he won't mind having mine." 

Castiel heads for the door, not turning around again. But he’s already seen the lock on Sam's face and he hates himself for putting it there. 


	12. Chapter 12

There is not one self-respecting person on this earth who would have liked working here. Sam’s thought so the day he started this dreary job, and he keeps thinking it every day he spends here. Customer support is a nice euphemism for having to listen to people whine all day. He's not allowed to be rude to callers, obviously, so there was no way to cut them off when they're chewing his ear off. For the past ten minutes, he’s been listening to a woman with a midwestern twang talk about her cat.

He puts the receiver down and stares at the flimsy partition behind his desk. He suppresses the sigh, a mixture of self pity and relief, that tends to escape whenever he ends a call. He reaches into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie for the volume wheel to turn up Sonic Youth. "Eric's Trip" begins to play. 

It had been one of those rare times when Cas had been really smashed, when he told Sam he thought the lyrics were about him and Ruby. Back then Sam had guffawed, and taken it as a joke. But now he can’t ever listen to the song without overanalyzing every line. 

_I can't see anything at all, all I see is me._

"Really?" Sam had asked, slightly drunk himself. "Eric Emerson on LSD makes you think of me? Or what? Andy Warhol - who you hate by the way? What am I missing?"

_My head's on straight, my girlfriend's beautiful. Looks pretty good to me._

"It's not like that." Castiel had furrowed his brow and stared at Sam for almost a whole minute before going on. "It's just: this guy who is so enamored, he can’t really see anything else going on. And this girl who is so into herself that..." Castiel looked down into his empty glass. "You don't really want to hear this, Sam."

It was a rude comparison that stung. But Sam likes the idea of Castiel hearing him in his favorite songs. He longs to know what else he can see Sam in; it's not really something you can ask a person. 

Sam jerks when he feels a hand on his shoulder. 

"Coffee break?" Ian asks. 

Ian is not a friend. In fact, Sam doesn't like his co-worker all that much. But they're stuck together in their cubicle and trying to do the best with it. They tolerate each other like two people thrown into the same nightmare who can feel each other's pain. Like two fat kids in a gym class. It's better than being totally on your own. 

Sam nods and takes the headphones from around his neck. "Lemme just-" He gets up and pushes the stop bottom on his walkman inside his hoodie. 

"Dude. I continue to be amazed that no one ever wonders why you're wearing this thing inside." 

"It's not like I can't still do my job."

Ian does a 50/50 hand gesture. "You sure about that?"

"I'm no worse than you," Sam says, as they head out of their cubicle and into the break room. 

"Yeah, well." Ian hacks out a laugh. "I'm horrible at this job. I probably lost this place a bunch of customers since I've been here. They'd be better off sending me home, letting me watch a bunch of Dinosaurs episodes and pay me for it."

"Keep dreaming," Sam says, as he grabs two mugs from the overhead cupboard. They're all stained with brown splotches on the inside, but these two are the least disgusting ones. Sam likes to put them on the highest shelf because no one else will get them from there. 

"It's not like you want to stay here forever, do you?" Ian asks. 

"No." Sam scoffs. "Definitely not." He leans back against the counter and stretches out his legs.

The coffee machine gurgles like it’s about to die. 

"See, man." Ian elbows him. "We're not like all the other losers out there. We're destined for greater things."

The only thing separating both of them from the other workers is the fact that they're at least ten years younger. Which, according to Sam, makes them even more pathetic. 

"Well, you know about my plans to open my own company," Ian tells him. "I already cleaned my parents' garage. I just need a little more cash first."

"Uh huh." Sam has heard this story a bunch of times. 

"What about you?" Ian asks, like he doesn't know. He just likes the day dreaming. 

"Well, actually..." 

There's a slow clicking sound and the red light on the coffee machine turns to green. 

"Actually?" Ian pours the coffee into the mugs. Sam always gets the one proclaiming him to be the "World's Greatest Dad". Ian's go-to has a faded 70s flower pattern. 

"My band just got a manager." It doesn't sound as grand said out loud, with no context. 

"So you're like signed now?" Ian asks, mildly impressed. 

"We don't have a record deal yet, but he said he'll negotiate a good one."

"Huh, really?" Ian shoves one mug in Sam's direction and takes up his own. "You and your little... I mean. You don't want me to call him your stalker, so—"

"That was one time!" Sam rolls his eyes. "And Cas wasn't stalking me. We just had a misunderstanding."

"Why was he standing outside in the rain waiting for you like that then? It was like something straight out of a slasher."

Sam blows into the coffee. "How does that make him a stalker? Have you never worried about a friend before?"

"Not like that. I wouldn't do that for my freaking girlfriend. Like, what good does it do if I worry, you know?" 

What girlfriend? Sam wants to ask. He clears his throat. "Well, anyway: Yeah, it’s still me and Cas, but we got a new singer actually."

"Oh, a ménage à trois." 

Sam lazily kicks Ian’s shin. "You're such an idiot."

"Yeah, well, but you are —"

He is cut short when another person appears in the doorway. Despite her slight frame Naomi Melek is somewhat of an impressive figure in her expensive pantsuit and with her stern gaze. She crosses her arms and looks from Ian to Sam. "I shouldn't be surprised to find you here and not at your desks."

"We're taking a coffee break." Ian swings his mug into the air as evidence. 

"You can drink coffee at your desks, as you are well aware."

"Yeah, but I couldn't listen to Sam's dreams about making it big, could I? All the phones out there are way too loud to have a decent conversation."

She shakes her head in a curt and aggressive fashion. "You shouldn't be having personal conversations on work hours either."

"What?" Ian asks. "Are we supposed to just sit around on mute when the phones aren't even ringing?"

"There's always work to be done." As she says this, she clutches a folder to her chest. "Besides, management is well aware of your other transgressions."

Ian almost chokes on the coffee, spluttering out a laugh. "Our other what now?" 

"I know you are the one who keeps stealing the pencils!" Her face flares up in anger. "And you!" She points a finger at Sam. "We know that you keep listening to your music while you're supposed to be working. And—" She breathes in deeply, calming herself. "This is the reason I was looking for you in the first place. We have been informed that you," at this she points at Sam, "are the one who broke the copy machine."

"What?" Sam puts down his mug onto the counter behind him. "I didn't break anything."

"I’m afraid you have," she says. "We found something in there that surely belongs to you." She opens the folder and pulls out a flyer for a Rain City gig. "Do you want to deny that this is yours?"

"That's mine," he admits. "But—"

"Do you want to deny that you were using the photocopier without authorization for your own personal gain?"

Ian chuckles. "Uhhh. You make it sound so threatening." 

"Yeah, I made a copy of this a few weeks ago," Sam says, "but—"

"This is not the first time!" she says. "The ink always runs out much too quickly. We have been trying to find the culprit for some time now."

"Everyone uses the copy machine for their own stuff," Sam tries to argue, but it's evidently the wrong strategy.

"Ah!" Her face lights up. "You admit it!"

"I admit that I once used the copier for my own stuff but I sure as hell didn't break it!"

"I think you need to calm down," she says. 

There's something about being told to calm down when you're already calm that just drives Sam nuts. He takes a deep breath. "I am calm. I'm just not agreeing with your accusations. You're insinuating I broke the copy machine and lied about it. That never happened."

It's like she doesn't even hear him. 

"We'll have to consider subtracting the cost of the repair from your pay."

"Excuse me?" Sam stands very tall now. "Are you kidding me?"

She purses her lips. "Do I look like I'm joking to you?"

"We're already getting paid scraps as it is!" Sam jerks his arms. One hits the mug on the counter and sends it flying onto the floor. The coffee spills all over the brown vinyl surface. The mug is broken. It looks like the tiny pieces are trying to spell something out to him. 

She looks from Sam to the floor and up again. The silence drags and Sam thinks he should move and clean the mess up. But he stays frozen to the spot. 

Eventually she says: "Well, I guess we'll have to subtract the cost of the mug, too."

"That mug isn't even company property!" Sam says, surprised by his own vehemence. 

Naomi’s mouth is one thin line. "I don’t care about the mug. What I do care about is the broken photocopier. I need you to admit your fault, so that we can all move past this. I also need you to cease your musical escapades on the job. I have created a paper of admittance that is only waiting for your signature. If you were so kind to—"

"I didn't break the god damn photocopier!" Sam shouts. "I'm not going to sign a stupid paper of admittance of guilt!"

She talks like she's trying to calm a rabid animal. "If you were so kind now to dispose of the remainder of the mug and clean the floor. Then you can sign the paper. Otherwise we will have to consider more drastic steps. I'm sure you are well aware that there are many people in your position who would be grateful for the work."

"You know what?" Sam throws his hands up into the air. "You obviously don't give a shit about the truth, but I didn't do it. I'm not going to sign anything."

"If you don't sign it, we'll have to—"

"Fire me?" He laughs. "Great! You know what?" He turns to Ian. The surprised look on his face gives Sam the last push he needs to get over the edge. "I'm quitting. You can't bait me with any of this if I'm quitting."

"You - what?" She furrows her brows. 

Sam takes a last look at Ian. "Good luck, man," he says, "I hope you’ll make it out, too." Then pushes himself past a befuddled supervisor out of the door. Ex-supervisor, he reminds himself. 

It's pure exhilaration for the first half an hour or so. He gets to walk to his desk, grab his bag and just leave. He'll never return, he thinks, and then later, at the bus station realizes: Yeah, actually, there are some documents and private things he should get out of his desk. But he doesn’t want to see any of their faces ever again. Maybe he’ll just cut his losses.

And then, when Sam is sitting on the bus, driving through the city, the real doubts start kicking in. 

He needs to pay rent. He's in an unsigned band that makes no money whatsoever. He's got nothing else lined up. 

Sam presses his face into the window of the bus. Shit. Shit. He just lost a job he hated that he couldn’t afford to lose. 

He doesn't really think about where he is going. But when he gets off the bus near Castiel's place instead of his own, he is not surprised. Sam kicks off his shoes at the door and walks straight to the bedroom. He plants himself onto the bed and wonders where Cas is. He pulls his hoodie off to use it as a pillow and gets his walkman out. 

He curls himself into the comforter and closes his eyes. Maybe he should have come here last night, after Castiel took off so suddenly. Dean hadn't seemed that surprised when he came back from the bathroom to only find Sam there at the bar. It had been fun just the two of them. In some ways it had been easier to relax without Castiel around. 

Sam has dozed off, when the door to the room opens. He turns in the bed. 

"Aren't you supposed to be at work?" Castiel asks, his hand on the door handle. 

"I quit." Sam rubs over his eyes. "They said I broke the copy machine." It's all the explanation he gives.

"Oh, shit. I’m sorry." 

"Yeah well, I hated working there anyway." 

"I know." Castiel walks up to the bed and kneels onto it. "Still."

Sam runs a hand over his face. He feels pathetic. 

Castiel bends forwards and lays his hand on Sam's stomach. It's a bit weird, but it's also comforting. 

"Did you really have a work thing yesterday?" Sam asks, looking up at his friend hovering above him. 

"No." Castiel's face is blank. "I just didn't want to stay."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing." Castiel pulls his hand away and falls down onto the bed beside Sam. "I just hung around here, played guitar, read a bit. I felt like an idiot."

"You're not an idiot." 

They lie there for a few minutes without saying anything. Sam staring at the ceiling, Castiel staring at him. The attention is comforting. This would be a good moment to hear all the songs and movies that remind Castiel of him. It's probably a bit self-obsessed. It’s definitely not normal to care so much. 

"This is weird," Sam says. "Isn't it?"

"What is?"

"This. Us. You and me."

"There's good weird and bad weird. What is this?"

"Weird weird," Sam says. 

He can feel that Castiel is about to pull away. Sam grabs his arm and says: "Good weird." All kinds of weird really, but Castiel settles back.

"You wanna tell me what happened yesterday?" Sam asks.

"No. You wanna tell me why you really quit work?" 

"I told you. They wanted me to pay for the copy machine to get fixed." 

"What are you gonna do?" Castiel asks. "Are you gonna look for a new job?"

"No." Sam is surprised by how sure he sounds. "No, I’ll need more time for the band anyway." He turns to face Castiel. "We're going to get a good record deal, we'll play sold out shows and I can't be bogged down by a shitty job."

If Castiel is questioning his decision, he's not showing it. He seems deep in thought. 

"Hey, Cas..." Sam puts his hand onto Castiel’s chest to get his attention. He's wearing a shirt of some obscure 60s band, the band name disappearing behind Sam's fingers. "Does your offer still stand?"

"My offer?" Castiel asks. 

"About me moving in with you?" Sam says. "I wouldn’t be able to pay any rent right now but I’d pay you back, of course. I don't wanna be a leech."

Castiel just stares for a second, then the hint of a smile appears on his face. "You know you don't have to pay me back," he says. 


	13. Chapter 13

Castiel stands in front of his apartment door and rummages through his pockets for his keys. He’s exhausted from work, taking pictures for a new band just a few streets away at a crappy small bar. The kind of band that will be broken up by next friday. The bar one of those nameless faceless ones that just blend into one once you’ve been to a few of them. Castiel is tired to the bone, but he’s still looking forward to Sam. It’s been three weeks since he’s moved in and the thrill of turning the key and knowing that he will be there has not worn off yet. 

He pictures Sam lying on the floor, reading a dog-eared paperback from one his boxes that are still cluttering the room - there wasn’t much they had to move into the apartment, but a few things still need to find a home. If Sam is taking an early night, maybe he’ll be sprawled over the bed the way Castel found him last week after one of his late night work gigs: Sam’s T-shirt rode up high, half his back exposed, and a light snore escaping his nose. Castiel felt he’d never heard anything more calming. He had been careful in shoving Sam’s starfished body into a shape that gave Castiel enough room beside him. 

Sam isn’t asleep. Castiel can tell the moment he walks into the hallway and hears two familiar voices. It’s not the first time he’s come home to find Dean here. Sometimes planned, sometimes unplanned. But never in the middle of the night. What’s more strange is that Castiel doesn’t hear laughing or music. There’s just a low rumble of conversation. 

Castiel tiptoes inside, which is ridiculous, because this is his home and it’s not a surprise to anyone that he’s getting back from work. Dean and Sam are in the bedroom. They are sitting on the floor with their legs outstretched and their backs against the bed frame. There’s a few scattered vinyls, one out of its jacket, but the record player is turned off. 

Dean is the first to speak, when Castiel walks in. He sounds tired. "Hey, man." 

"Hey..." Castiel wishes his room was bigger. There’s not really anywhere to sit besides the bed. He keeps standing. "What’s up?"

"Not much," Sam says. Castiel doesn’t miss the glance he’s throwing at Dean. 

Castiel steps over their legs to get to the bare vinyl. He picks it up and puts it back into the sheath and then the sleeve. Castiel puts the record back where it belongs, and turns around toward the bed. 

"I just came by for some company," Dean says. It’s only now that Castiel notices how pale he is. 

"You okay?" Castiel asks. "You look like you haven’t slept in a week."

"Nah. I’m okay." 

Castiel tries to catch Sam’s eyes but he looks into his lap. Sam’s shoulder presses into Dean’s. 

"I just came from the hospital," Dean says. "Your place was on my way, so I thought I’d see if someone was there. Just to get my mind off."

"In the hospital? Did you get into a fight or something?"

"Ha! I wish. I went to take a look at my father. Apparently I’m still his emergency contact. I mean, I get it, it’s not like the guy has any friends left." 

Castiel crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Is he okay?"

Dean stretches his arms over his head, something cracks in his back, then he puts his hands onto the bed frame. "My old man hasn’t been okay since 1972. But he’s not dead, if that’s what you mean. He had a car crash. Drunk driving."

"What happened in 1972?" 

"My mom left."

"How’s your father doing, all things considered?" 

"That fucker is hard to kill." Dean sounds almost prideful, then his expression changes. "I just can’t believe he’s trying to draw me back into his bullshit." 

Castiel isn’t sure what the appropriate thing to say is. "You’re not on good terms then?" 

Dean weighs his head from one side to the others. "My father’s that kind of man who told his son his mother was taken by a demon." Dean laughs. "A fucking demon. You know how long it took me out to realize that he was drunk gibberish?" 

"How old were you?" Sam’s voice draws Castiel back to his friend. Sam’s face is soft, his eyes big and worried, as he contemplates Dean. 

"I was about 6. The weird thing is: He believed it too. I think he just repeated it to himself so many times, eventually he thought it really happened. It’s probably easier than facing the fact that you’re a drunk loser and your wife packed her bags and ran away." 

"Your mom just left you with him?" Sam asks, shocked. 

"I can’t blame her for leaving." Dean shrugs.

Sam puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder. "That’s rough, man." 

"Yeah, well. It is what it is." 

Castiel clears his throat. "So what are you gonna do now?" 

"About what? My father? Going back to ignoring him, I guess." 

"When is he getting out of the hospital?" 

"God knows," Dean says. "They asked me if it was possible that he might have a problem with alcohol. Ya think? This guy has been an alcoholic for as long as I can remember." 

"And you really don’t have any contact with him anymore?" Sam asks. "Before the hospital called?" Sam’s got the same problem everyone with loving, caring parents has: he just can’t comprehend broken families. 

"I haven’t spoken to him since rehab... And then I only did it because we were supposed to make amends with people we hurt. That shit just made me angry. There’s so much crap he needs to be apologizing for, and there I was saying like 'Sorry, Dad, for stealing your cigarettes when I was 12', 'Sorry, Dad, for sleeping with your skank girlfriend at 16', 'Sorry for setting the dog house on fire'." At this he notices Sam’s peeved look and assures him, "We never had a dog. It was just a leftover from the former house owners." 

"What did your father do?" Castiel asks. 

Sam throws him a look that absolutely says 'You can’t just ask stuff like that'. 

"Just being a dead-beat Dad," Dean says. "You don’t like your parents either, right?" 

"How can you tell?"

"The way you react when Sam mentions them. Like it’s got nothing to do with you."

"I don’t mind my parents."

"I don’t mind the dumpster fire on the outskirts of town, either," Dean says. "Doesn’t mean I like it. Definitely doesn’t mean I love it."

"I appreciate my parents’ rigor in allocating their mass of money in equal amounts onto their children."

"You got siblings?" 

Castiel hugs himself. "Why is that surprising?" 

"You don’t seem the type. Everything about you screams lonely child." 

Castiel slides down the record shelf, the sharp edges of the wood cutting into his back. He reaches the floor and settles with his legs drawn in so as to not touch the others. Sam throws him a puzzled look and then draws up his legs too. 

"I got a lot of brothers and sisters, actually," Castiel says. "I’m just not really close to them."

Dean rubs over his eyes. "Why not?" 

"I guess I’m the black sheep in my family?"

Dean laughs. "You? Seriously?" 

Castiel grimaces. 

"No. I don’t mean it in a bad way. It’s just, I’m just trying to imagine what they must be like if you’re the black sheep in your family. They can’t be having any kinds of real problems." 

"They don’t," Sam says, his finger drawing figure eights onto his knee. "No money problems at least."

"Not everything’s money," Dean says. "Poor people don’t have a monopoly on tragedy."

"No, they don’t," Castiel agrees. "And they do have problems. Every single one of them."

"What makes you stand out then?"

"They live more respectable lives," Castiel says. "And they always moved within their allotted parameters of crazy." 

"I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean." 

"Just that I’m just the officially 'weird’ one." 

"His parents are nice," Sam says, which surprises Castiel. He never seemed especially fond of them. "They’re just like you’d imagine nice rich folks to be."

"Handing out money?" 

"Yeah, kinda," Sam huffs out a laugh. "I mean, if you think about it, without their generosity I wouldn’t be living here." 

"You’re not here because of them. They wouldn’t want you living here." Castiel isn’t certain why he says it, and as a frown descents onto Sam’s face like a dark cloud, he wishes he hadn’t. 

"They don’t like me?" Sam asks, with a surprised shake of his head that lets his hair fly in front of his eyes. 

"They do like you," Castiel says, terribly aware of Dean staring at them. "They like you more than any of my other friends."

"I thought they liked Meg, too." 

"They loved Meg," Castiel agrees. Memories of a very strange birthday dinner of his father’s in his family home come to mind. "Anna started taking on bets on how fast she’d leave me ten minutes into meeting her because they all thought she was too good for me."

"Ah, yeah. I remember. Gabriel won, right?"

"Thanks for rubbing it in."

"Who’s Meg?" Dean asks. "That ex-girlfriend you claimed you had?" 

"Claimed?" Sam squints. 

"It’s a long story," Dean says and focuses back onto Castiel. "So she’s real?"

"Of course Meg is real." Castiel hugs his knees closer to his chest. 

"What’s she like? Hot?"

"Very," Sam says, which - while technically a correct statement - feels all kinds of wrong coming from him. "A bit of a nutcase." 

"Really?" Dean asks, intrigued. "Doesn’t seem like the kind of person Cassie here would be into." 

Castiel wishes Meg had never come up. "It’s not like you’ve known me for very long, is it?" 

"She pretty much chased after him for half a year before he so much looked at her," Sam explains. And while that, too, is technically correct, hearing his relationship laid out like this makes it sounds so stupid. So trivial when it had felt anything but. The fact of the matter is that he grew to love her. Maybe not as much as he loved some other people, but love nonetheless. 

"Did you fuck it up?" It takes a second until Dean’s question sinks in. "I mean, if she left you, something must have happened." 

"Nothing happened," Castiel says. "It just didn’t work out."

"Maybe the chase was better than the catch?" Dean’s smug face is hard to take. "Some girls just like a challenge."

"It wasn’t like this." Castiel shakes his head. "She’s not like this at all. She’s great."

"Yeah, but if you think she’s great and she thinks you’re great, and you think she’s hot and —"

Castiel runs a hand over his face. "Hey, look," he says. "It’s getting pretty late and I’m beat from work and you’re kinda sitting in between me and my bed."

"Cas," Sam says. "If you don’t want to talk about her, you can just say so."

Castiel glares back. "I don’t mind talking about her; I just don’t like people insulting her."

"Insulting her?" Dean laughs. "I don’t even know her!"

"He wasn’t insulting her," Sam says. 

"I don’t care," Castiel says. "I was serious about needing to get to bed."

It’s probably got something to do with his tiredness that makes it feel they’re ganging up on him. 

Dean groans as he heaves himself up from the floor. Sam’s hand grips the loose end of his jeans. "You don’t need to go. We can still hang out if you want."

"Nah man," Dean’s eyes are on Castiel’s as he speaks. "He’s right. It’s late. I need to bust anyway." 

Sam untangles his fingers from the jeans. "Okay," he says, obviously disappointed. "See you tomorrow then?"

"Sure thing." Dean does a little two-fingered salute to the both of them. "Good night." 

Sam and Castiel don’t look at each other, until Dean has disappeared out of the room, the sound of his steps grow dimmer, until they’re fully gone. 

When Sam speaks again, it’s not with the anger Castiel expected. "I didn’t know you were still so sensitive about the topic," he says. "I thought you were over her ages ago."

"I’m not sensitive about it. I just didn’t like his tone."

Sam looks doubtful. 

"One day you’re gonna learn what being baited is, and you’ll stop falling for it." 

"Oh yeah, sure, it’s my mistake that he was being an ass." 

"I mean… A little?"

Castiel turns to glare at Sam but finds a very disarming smile on his face. "Hey," Sam says and his smile wavers a little. "Do your parents really not like me?" 

"They do like you." 

Sam cocks his head. "But they don’t know that I live here?"

"I haven’t even spoken to them in a month."

"Why would they not want me living here, if they liked me?" 

"Sam..."

"No, really, it’s not some self pity thing. I just don’t get it."

What it’s a good way to say 'They like you, they just don’t like how much you mean to me'?

"Look, I don’t know why I said that, okay?" Castiel gets up, and sits down on the bed next to where Sam is planted on the ground. 

"I feel really bad for Dean," Sam says after a while. "Growing up like this." 

"Yeah, no wonder he’s got into some deep shit. I’d wanna escape a family like that too."

"It’s amazing how well he is now, considering." Sam shifts, his shoulder brushing against Castiel’s leg. "Good thing he’s got us now." 

Castiel grunts in what he hopes sounds like agreement. 


	14. Chapter 14

Sam’s smile is shy and unsure, and of the kind rarely directed at Castiel. "Hey," Sam mouths and moves in so he can make himself heard over the loud music. He has to bend over, almost nuzzling Castiel's neck. Or maybe he doesn't have to. Maybe he just does it. 

"You want something to drink?" he asks. 

Castiel waits until Sam withdraws his head and looks at him. He nods. 

"Beer okay?" 

"I have to drive." 

"One beer," Sam huffs and his smile relaxes. He puts a hand on Castiel's bare arm. His fingers are surprisingly cold. "I'm not trying to get you drunk. I wanna get home too." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah, obviously." Sam knits his eyebrows together in confusion. "Why, what do you mean?"

"I thought you were kinda planning on maybe staying over." 

"At Brady's?" Sam laughs. "No way, this place is rank. Besides." He throws a look around the packed room. "I'm pretty sure there’s a few people here who won't be able to move by the end of the night."

"It's a big house." 

"Yeah. I mean, if you like sleeping on a 100 year old mattress in the attic, be my guest, but I prefer to sleep in our bed." Sam is still smiling, but there's a tightness to it now. Like he’s just realized what that sounds like. 

"Yeah, no, me too," Castiel says, and pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans. 

"So beer okay?"

"Sure, beer's fine." 

There's the hand on his arm again and Sam's voice speaking to him through the curtain of hair: "Thanks man."

"For what?"

"For coming with. I know how you feel about Brady."

"He's okay," Castiel lies. 

One last teeth-flashing smile and Sam disappears out of the room. 

Castiel’s been standing by himself for mere seconds, when someone approaches him from behind. He doesn't have to ask when her hands drape over his eyes. There's no one who would do this but her. 

"Hello, Meg," he says. 

"Aw man, what gave it away?" 

"Your hands," he says, "and your smell."

"A little creepy." She comes to stand before him. "But sweet too." 

He remembers her black dress. His eyes immediately go to her right knee. The hem sports an old cigarette burn. She cursed for ten minutes straight when it happened. But then insisted she wasn't going to throw away her favorite piece of closing because of one measly hole. 

His eyes wander up to her face. He hopes it doesn’t look like he was checking her out. This, everything about it, feels awkward. He wants to embrace her but isn’t sure if he's allowed to or not. Thankfully, she decides for him, puts her arms around his neck and pulls him into a hug. "I didn't think you'd be here," she says. They have to stand close on account of the loud music. 

"Same."

"I already noticed you when you walked in. I thought I’d give you and Sam a minute." There’s still something in the way she says Sam's name. 

"He's just getting something to drink."

"Yeah, I figured this or the bathroom." For a moment, they don't say anything. Then she rolls her eyes, as a new song starts playing. "God, I'd die happy if I didn't have to hear another Nirvana song in my life."

He smiles. It’s a good song. "I always liked how much they annoyed you." 

"Yeah, well, I got good taste."

"You do."

"Kinda wish I had better taste in men though."

Castiel opens his mouth to apologize. 

"I was joking," she says, "although I did make a pact with myself to not go that hard after any guy again for a while."

"Oh," he scratches over his neck. "How's that going?"

"Pretty good," she asks. "Hey, you know Jo?"

He shakes his head. 

"Harvelle. You played with her band once. Baby Slut Caravan?" She looks up at the ceiling. "No, that can’t be right. But they had a really dumb name like that. Slut Caravan something. You don’t remember? She’s the blonde one, the drummer."

"Oh." How could Castiel forget. "That riot girrrl band last year?" 

"If that’s all female-fronted bands for you, I guess. They're not really the gender theorists types, more get drunk and wake up in another state not knowing what happened."

"Yeah," he pulls up his nose. "I’d never met a band that smelled that bad before."

They both laugh. "Yeah," she agrees. "Their singer didn’t believe in showering much. Thank God, Jo smells fine."

Castiel crunches up his face in question. 

"Anyway. They split up. Jo’s with another band, but mostly she's working at Sub Pop now."

"Oh wow, Sub Pop! That’s pretty cool. So, you and her…"  
She does a half shrug. 

Sam comes back and shoves a bottle of beer into Castiel’s hand. "Oh hey, Meg!" he says, like he didn’t see her before. "You want a beer too?"

"I’m fine," she says. "I meant to get back anyway." She points over her shoulder. 

"You don't need to leave because of me," Sam says with a friendly smile that wavers into the insecure. Castiel knows it always bothered him that Meg didn’t warm to him. "We haven't seen you around in ages." 

She nods and straightens her dress. "I've heard you guys've been pretty busy, too. How's life as a three-piece?"

"It's great!" Sam's eyes light up. "It's like being in a completely different band." 

She casts a doubtful glance into Castiel’s direction. "I never knew that's what you guys wanted. I thought you were fine doing your own thing, just the two of you." 

"We’re still doing our own thing," Sam says. "We were always good, but now—"

"Now we're almost _marketable_ ," Castiel says. 

Irritation flits over Sam's face, then he turns to Meg again. "You should really hear us play some day."

"Maybe."  
  
"We changed our name, too," Sam says. Castiel wishes he wouldn’t try to sell their band so hard to Meg of all people. Meg who's definitely not buying, who's never cared about any of this kind of crap. 

"What is it?" she asks. 

"Rain City." 

She laughs, a hick up of a laugh. 

"You don't like it?" Sam asks. 

"I mean, I guess. It just sounds..." She glances at Castiel. "Generic?"

"Don't look at me," Castiel says. "It wasn't my first choice." 

"I mean, what is all of this?" she asks. "Getting a new singer - getting _that kind_ of singer - and changing your name to something that appeals to some music executives who'll eat up anything from Seattle because they think they might milk some money out of you? Are you guys trying to get a piece of that whole cake?" She shrugs. "I mean, don't get me wrong: You guys, the two of you, you were always a super weird band. But that's what was interesting about you. You know. Vincent Van was original at least." 

Sam takes a big gulp of his beer and turns his body away from her and towards the room. 

"We still make good music," Castiel says, more amused by her rant than anything else. 

"So you're not going to sell your soul for some of that L.A. executive grunge money?" she asks. "Because I've seen too many bands over the last years do that. And all the shitty people migrating here, urgh."

Castiel touches her shoulder. "Does that sound like me?" 

"No, but Dean fucking Winchester also didn't sound like you." 

"Yeah well." It's hard to argue with. 

"But I'll check you guys out," Meg promises. "Next time you're playing, I'll be there." Then she puts her hands around Castiel's neck to pull him close again. "Your quasi boyfriend is such an idiot," she says into his ear. "Tell him to cool it." She laughs at the expression on his face and walks off. 

"What did I say that was so bad?" Sam asks while he plays with the bottle in his hand. 

"That's just how she is." 

Sam pulls a hand through his hair and sighs. "Tell me one more time why you guys broke up, when she's so obviously still into you?"

Castiel points to the speakers in the corner of the room. "Isn't that the new Fugazi? I didn't know Brady was into them." 

"All right, we don't need to talk about it." Sam takes another gulp of the beer and leans against the wall. 

"Do you remember a band called Baby Slut Caravan?" Castiel asks, when he comes to stand next to Sam, to watch the rest of the party from a somewhat safe space. 

Sam huffs out a laugh. "Do I? You think I could forget that smell?" They smile at each other. "That bassist was so into you."

"What?" Castiel furrows his brows. "No, she wasn't."

"Man, she was practically throwing herself at you."

"No, you got that wrong."

"I definitely didn't." Sam empties his bottle and aims it at Cas'. "You haven't even started on yours yet."

"You can have it."

"Let's share."

Castiels takes a sip of his lukewarm beer, before he passes the bottle to Sam. 

"You remember they were asking us to tour with them," Sam says, a little wistfully. 

"Yeah, of course I remember. You didn't want to do it."

"Is that what I said?" Sam looks down the neck of the bottle. 

"You did want to tour with them?" Castiel asks. 

Sam bites his lip and looks over to the door where some guy is waving to him. Sam waves back, and turns to Castiel. "Ruby didn't want me to go," he says. 

"She didn't want you to go on tour in general?" 

"Well, you know how she felt about the band," Sam says. "We’d always fight about it. But the tour thing... She said there was no way she'd let me go on a tour with a four women-piece band. I mean," he laughs. "She'd met them; she knew what they smelled like!" He doesn't look at Castiel as he adds, "Besides, she knew I'd never have done anything."

"I think Meg might be dating their old drummer, Jo?" Castiel says, because he's not sure what else he got to offer about the Ruby thing. 

"Really?" Sam huffs out surprised. "Huh."

"Yeah, she says, Jo doesn't smell too bad."

"So you think Ruby was right to keep me away?" Sam asks with a sad smile. "I wouldn't have been able to resist her non-stinking allure?"

"Sam," Castiel says with gravitas. "If there's one thing you're never going to hear me say it's that Ruby was right."

"Yeah, I know you hate her." Sam rubs the back of his hand over his nose. "She has her good sides," he says, like Castiel hasn't heard this a million times before. 

"She hit you, Sam," Castiel says. 

Sam frowns. "That was an accident." 

"And that black eye she gave you?"

"That was when I shoved her after we fought, she was just—" Sam shakes his head and looks at him, incredulous. "Come on! Don't paint me like some sappy domestic abuse victim here. Look at me." He points the beer bottle towards his chest. "You don't think I could have been able to defend myself against my freaking 5 foot 3 girlfriend?"

Castiel exhales sharply. 

"Is that really how you see me?" Sam says, his voice cracking. "As some lame sap who let her walk all over me?"

"No and that's not what I said."

"Yeah well, it sounded like it." 

"I'm not blaming you for what she did," Castiel says. "She's a good manipulator and you were in love with her. And people do stupid shit when they're in love." Sam shakes his head, but Castiel continues. "It’s not your fault she’s your blindspot. I just wish you could finally see her a little more objectively." 

Sam's face clouds over. "I'm gonna get another beer," he says and walks off with the half-full bottle still in his hand. 

Castiel stays behind for a short moment, and then sets out to look for Meg. He spends the rest of the evening with her and a few of her friends who he doesn't know. They are cordial enough. They mostly talk music. One of them is a short brown-headed girl with doe eyes a good few years younger than him. She turns out to be an amateur photographer and ends up asking Castiel all about his job. It's a nice distraction. If Sam wanted to find him, he easily could. 

After a while the group disperses and he ends up on a couch in the middle of the hallway with Meg by his side. They're facing two doors, and there's people walking past them all the time. It's busy, but it's quieter here than in the rest of the house. It's nice to catch up with Meg. It almost feels like it used to when things were good between them. Meg puts her head onto his shoulder. He thinks maybe enough time has passed for them to actually give this friendship thing a go. He could certainly use a friend. 

He gets distracted from these thoughts when one of the doors opens. Dean walks out, disheveled, his hair a mess. He straightens his shirt. When he notices Castiel, he flashes a smile at him and hurries off. Only seconds later the door opens again and a guy, burly and intimidating looking, walks out. He doesn't pay Castiel any attention. 

"I didn't even know Dean was here tonight," Castiel says. He turns his head to Meg. 

"Wow," she laughs. "You and him seem awfully close. He almost said hi. I guess he was a bit distracted." 

Castiel puts his hand onto the arm rest, irritated. 

"What?" She bends forward and learns onto her thighs. 

"Do you know the other guy?" he asks. 

"You don't know Benny?" She sounds surprised. 

"Should I?" 

"You probably wouldn't," she says and leans back into the couch. "Pretty sure he's the one who brought in 90% of the drugs here tonight." 


End file.
